


Psychotic Actions

by frerardiscool



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Apartment, M/M, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frerardiscool/pseuds/frerardiscool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm such a monster, I'm scared of myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Company is Uncanny

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has not been completely spell-checked by me, but this will have to do for the time being. Here is my new story, and I apologize for my previous one. I won't be continuing that one until this one is finished and well done at that. Without any further ado, I present to you "Psychotic Actions"! I think many people can relate and enjoy the novella as much as I have. I will be posting once a week regularly per chapter, but it's not quite finished at the moment, so it just kind of depends. If I get behind, I get behind, eh? But, seriously, feedback and kudos on this story would mean the world to me with all the blood, sweat and tears, mostly tears, I've put into this story, a slight congratulations would be nice. So, happy reading, and the story just goes downhill from here. (The conflict, not the quality.) See you on the flip side.  
> xo,  
> Amanda

 

                  Today was _the_ day – it was a fresh start, from everything. It’s a fresh start from my relationships, my parents, and basically everything in my life until now. I wanted a clean slate; I didn’t want a single person here to know who I am. I want my face to be completely anonymous, like when they see me, they don’t stop to think who I am. I don’t want them to know who I am at all. I want my face to be unrecognized: absolutely unknown. I want the anonymous feature on my skin, when some rash neighbor decides to knock on my door as a welcoming gesture, to be a new face. I want to be completely nameless. Me, I am nameless.

                 Well, I do have a real and provided name, but I just have so many nicknames that people bequeathed me; I’ve almost overlooked my actual name. My _own_ , previously provided name that my parents gave me that I had forgotten? Well, _almost_ forgotten.  I find that exceptionally hard to believe.

                  Oh, how impolite of me. Sharing my deepest thoughts and secrets from a complete stranger. I bet you all are wondering what my first name is, and I really wish I could provide you that information, but I can’t. I’m under strict ruling to not share my given name to anyone, unless it’s urgent, and this doesn’t seem urgent to me. It’s just me, spilling all my secrets with foreigners, but I’m required to do this. By law. And I know what you’re all thinking: ‘By law?’ ‘Required?’ but don’t worry. I’m not some mental person, nervously walking the streets of New York, pleadingly trying to shove my stories in an editor’s face, to get them to publish it for me. Oh, wait maybe I am. Er, I was. Until it was useless because everyone knew whom I was, and what I had done. And if you were happened to wonder, it never works, because everyone in this fucking state knows who I am.

                   They know what I’ve done, and it doesn’t feel good.

                   Like I’ve mentioned before, I want to be a nameless appearance. I want someone to not know whom I am or what I’ve done – so that’s why I moved here, to this unnamed apartment in this New Jersey. Hey, I wasn’t really supposed to share that information, but there has to be at least a thousand apartment complexes in the state, right? Again, legal rights apply, but here I am, standing in the entrance to an apartment building, waiting to receive my apartment and card. I feel _official_ , and not the worst person on the planet, which I am, but I tend to not think of it. No one is giving me uncouth stares I dread. No one is paying any mean attention toward me. I feel _regular_ , although I’m not. I snap out of my massive train of thought, and focus my gaze on the hostess gesturing me to approach me. Doing as I was…um… motioned, I walk to her desk, and her eyes are on her computer.

                  “Your last name, sir?” I smirk secretly, trying to not show that that question applies as much to me as everyone else in this place. I don’t _know_ my real name, well, I do, but I’m not allowed to publicly announce my first or last name to any living person. It’s strict ruling, and I’m not going to go exceed their expectations of my future actions, but I’ve let people down before. I can do it again. I’ll probably spill my name somewhat to some person here, and then I’ll get thrown in jail, but what can you do? I will probably be either really into that person, or we’ll be just friends. I just hope I won’t have to do that. I’ve never had friends before, so I’ve never had to tell anyone, beside the people I was required to. Having a friend that lives in this building would be pretty awesome. I hope I’m almost as likeable as people don’t say I am. I hope.

                  “Uh…Wilson.”

                  Wilson was my great-great-great grandmother’s last name – technically her maiden name. She married my great-great-great grand _father_ who changed her surname to his. This whole ‘change your last name when you get married but only for the women, and the women change their last name to her husband’s, so they have the same last name in the end thing’ is very complicating. Good thing I’ll die alone, and I don’t have to think of that. I never realized how smart I am with connecting my fake surnames with things that have happened in reality. One point to me. The woman click-clacks on her sophisticated computer keyboard, apparently searching for my room.

                  “Oh, yes here you are! Room A-365. Here is your key.” The woman places the key in my hand, after I hold it out to her. I nod, as she smiles. Hmm, I bet that’s the same, copyrighted smile she gives to every male customer that enters this building that speak with her. I hate it when people do that. I walk away for her, allowing the person behind me to replace the area I was once in. I notice the big sign that says: Elevator. I quickly adjust to that side of the buttons, to which I select one and construct it light up, and patiently wait for it to arrive. My area quickly arises with people, popping at every corner to use the elevator. Some people are very clingy – and I never knew that, considering people would change their side of the street when I was on one side of the sidewalk in New York. The fact that everyone treats me as a regular individual here makes me very happy. As the elevator reaches our level, I make sure I’m the first one on that elevator. First of all, I’m testing the people who can’t see my face clearly. For example, if I walk in first, and turn around, meaning everyone will catch a glimpse at my face. And if someone knows me, they will shout out my full and _real_ name, and expose me to everyone. Hey, it’s worth a thought.

                  The elevator opens its doors, preparing me to enter in first, but before I have the chance, some dumbass decides to go before me. Who does this guy think he is? I needed to be first way more than he does! As I try to not put this show-it-off guy in a headlock, I angrily enter in second. Second is not good enough for me. This narcissistic urchin blocks me. No one can fucking see my face, so I can’t tell if these people know me or not. I blame this selfish creep. His entire fault, and I have clearly decided that I despise this young man. Slowly the elevator fills, and the more people that enter, the more suspicious I become to what room this man is placed at. Just when I have a perfect glimpse at his key number, the elevator starts to move. Who even pressed the button? I never heard a button press. But it doesn’t matter anyway. I saw what his room number was.

                  A-366.

                  Out of all the fucking rooms in this apartment building, they _had_ to give him that one? There has to at least be more than a thousand rooms here, and I’m stuck sleeping in the room next to their egocentric intruder? I _loathe_ this man, and his thoughts, and his actions, and his lack of sanity. All of it is just making me want to puke in a bucket. I never wanted to see this man ever again, but _no_ , he’s the room right in front of mine. How lovely. How can I sleep if I’m wide-awake hoping that he won’t burst in my room and steal me? I’m very easy to steal, as much as I fight back. He looks strong, although I could probably take him. Wait, if I hate him so fucking much, why am I staring at his muscles? And why is he flexing them for me? My new arrival at this composition has not pleasant.

                  When the elevator arrives on my… I mean - _our_ floor, my acquaintance and I step out of the elevator. It is pretty much empty by now, as well as the halls. The annoying dude to my left side walks with me, trailing my every step. He obviously doesn’t know where his room is, but this annoys me. I do not like him; therefore, he annoys me. Anything he does, including copying my every move, annoys me. His face annoys me. It annoys me to how handsome it is. Wait, that’s weird. Ew. I did _not_ just say that. No, no. No. No. No. No. No. No. _No._ I angrily despise this man. I want him out of here – I want him out of my fucking life! How could I say that his horrible creature is ‘handsome’? Can we just pretend I never said that? Because I didn’t mean it – not at all. Lies. Lies. _Lies._ I lied. I swear that I lied. I lied to everyone. I think he is _ugly_ , same with his selfish personality. I wish he would die. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I do not think he is handsome. He is very handsome. No, I meant ugly. _Ugly_. I didn’t mean to say handsome. _Ugly_. Damn, I need to get a handle on things. My slip of sanity is slipping away. He’s ugly, and I know it. He’s dark and empty – as well as his soul. We reach our rooms, and he narrows his eyes as I place my hands on the A-365 doorknob to open it. A fake smile appears on his over-enthusiastic face. I wish he would just shut up and die.

                  “Whoa – you live in A-365? I’m in front of you!” No dip Sherlock. Everyone can see that I live in front of you, genius. Damn, this kid is so annoying; his voice makes me want to shove knives up my ears so I can’t hear this joyful voice any longer. I probably have to bear with him a lot, right? Like for breakfast? And lunch? And _dinner_? I have to handle this man three times a day? Are meals necessary in this place? They are probably are, to ‘provide self-awareness of other people around you, and to interact with other citizens that live in this place’. Fuck me. The mysteriously happy guy waves me goodbye, with the same exasperating smile on his face, as I enter my room after inserting my key in its desired location. I basically run into my room, trying to escape this bothersome person as fast as I can.

                   I slam my door, before this person can make a welcoming gesture to me. I hate welcoming gestures. Especially _his_ welcoming gestures. He annoys the fuck out of me, and the pity of being forced to look at his creation of ugliness. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. _I hate him_. I set my duffle bag on my bed, which is nicely made and is bleached white. What would happen if I…um…spilled something on it? Then it wouldn’t be white anymore. Duh. They should really think ahead, because, what if someone is eating on their bed, and it gets on it? Oh, maybe that’s why we are supposed to eat as a group, supposedly. I mean, let’s say their supper is red, and they drop a small piece of it on the peroxided-white bedspread, it automatically turns to red. Then, the entire thing fades to red. It doesn’t wash off. It’s happened to me before, and it doesn’t feel nice.

                  After I unpack all my clothes, my inevitabilities and such, I turn to my nightstand, hopefully for customer service. I want to call them – to complain about the color of my counterpane. It’s too simple and easy to stain. I’m a very complicated human being, and am only satisfied with the best. But then, I didn’t see the customer service number. It was on there, and I could tell, but my eyes drifted to a different section of the leaflet. It was a photo of the annoying kid. I swear. The hardest I try to avoid this stalking enthusiast, the more times I see him. I just want to never see him again. I want to dispose his face from my brain. I want to trash the sound of his voice he inscribed in my mind. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him! _I hate him!_

                  But why could I recognize his face?

                  Oh my God. I didn’t? Yeah, I didn’t notice his face. I blame him, and his flamboyant and intolerable behavior. Who even does that? Only him. I hate him. I’ve told you that. That I hate him. How could you not hate him? He’s obnoxious. He’s annoying. He’s bothering. He’s…Frank. That’s his name. It says it right under the photograph of him. Frank. Hmm. That sounds like a stupid name. It’s as stupid as him. It’s pathetic. It’s completely irrational. It’s irrational on why I would be staring at the photo of him. He looks really…professional. It’s a professional camera with a professional photographer in a professional studio. He’s in a fucking tuxedo, for crying out loud!

                  Under his gorgeous…I mean insignificant…photograph is an ad. It’s _his_ ad. It’s an ad to have guitar lessons with him. No. Never in a million years. He’s _stupid_. And I bet he can’t even play guitar. Or bass. Or whatever. Oh…it’s guitar. Whatever. Not like he’d teach me or anything. Not like I’d _want_ to be taught by his lack of teaching skills. He has to be in his twenties, or early thirties.  Not like it matters to me. Nope. No. Nope. Nope. _No_. This information is not relevant or important to me whatsoever. It doesn’t matter to me if he was five or if he was sixty-five. I need to avoid him – and his obnoxious, extravagant attitude and voice. I hate him. Yes. I do. I really hate him. _Hate._

The faster than I reckoned, I hear the sound of a voice. Who would possibly be in my room? Is it the creep…I mean, Frank? No. He doesn’t sound annoying enough. But if it isn’t Frank, then who could it be? Who else would be stalking me? Who else would know where I live? Well, besides the facility. They have no choice but to know. I turn my head both ways, then behind me. Nothing out of the ordinary: besides the weird painting over my bed. It’s basically a near-naked woman; she has her undergarments fully on, sitting on a couch. What _even_? Did my parents suggest this room, so they could change my sexuality? Wow. Thanks. And they wonder why I hate them, and have forced them out of my life completely.

                  After I break my stare with the hair-raising lady, I look in front of me. And there it is. There’s a fucking intercom system set up in my bedroom. What am invasion of privacy! It’s _my_ room. I want some confidentiality. That’s why I’m here in the first place. I am outraged. Oh my God, but what can I do about it? Nothing, that’s what. I can just watch it happen. I won’t do anything to prevent it from happening. It happened. Done. What am I supposed to do about it? I didn’t have a purpose on this planet to stop bad things from happening. I’m usually the _reason_ bad things happen around here. Now I’m in New Jersey. I hope I’m safe…from myself now.

                  “Lunch time is in five minutes. I repeat: lunch time is in five minutes.”

                  No. Someone tell me that’s not what I heard. Group lunch? Socializing? What if someone recognizes me? What if I’m thrown out? No, that can’t happen. Oh, or worse, what if they have horrible food? _Mingling_? No. That is not in my dictionary. I like to stay in my room, and just remain quiet. I can do just that – well, I would if I could. I don’t want to go. Five minutes until I have to communicate with these stupid people. Well, four now. I despise all of them, and especially Frank. Oh, if Frank is there, today will be the day my ears are ripped off my head. They already are, well, internally. No, no, no, no, _no_. I wrap up the pamphlet completely and shove it inside my pillowcase. No one can know that I want to keep this photo of Frank – I mean, I need to communicate with Customer Service, and Frank’s photo _happens_ to be in the same brochure. He’s ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. _Ugly_. _Ugly_! Not gorgeous – ugly!

                  “One minute. _One_. _Minute_.”

                  How picky. I don’t want one minute. They are reading my mind. I hate them. How sneaky. I hate their furtiveness, and cleverness. They can’t be clever with me. Hint: don’t be clever with me. _Ever_. Ugh, and I hate socials. Socials suck, even more that I’m scared someone is going to scream my real name. I can’t be exposed. Clean slate, remember? Anyways, it _is_ just lunch. It can’t be that bad. Just an hour or two of pure torture. I hope I can handle such pain. I probably can. Hey, I’m a Wilson. Oh, inside joke between us. Ha-ha.

                  Before the loudspeaker lady, if it is a lady, can criticize me on my unpunctuality, I stand up from my bed, and walk to the door. I hate the pure thought of it: lunch and socializing. _Socializing_. Bleh. I want to puke at that word. It’s almost as disgraceful and unbearable as Frank’s face. Oh, Frank’s face. Now I just might actually puke. Once I open my door, guess who happens to do that at the exact same time? _Frank._

                  “Oh my God! Hey! Are you attending lunch too?”

                  ‘Are you attending lunch too?’ Fuck yes I am. I have no choice, genius. Damn, this kid must’ve never gone to college, or anything. Wow. I’ve never been this close to him before. His eyes are a chocolaty brown. His hair is as brown as his eyes, but they are fading to black. The sides of his hair as bleached white, but they look blonde. Bleached – reminds me of the terrible-looking bedspread. He’s as ugly as that bedspread. And his smile – oh, his smile. Its bea-beautifully destroyed. Disgusting. How can he look at himself in the mirror each day? And he has stubble. Oh dear lord, that stubble with by death of me. Oh, uh, because it’s so fucking ugly. Damn.

                  “Yeah. Is it required?”

                  “Yeah. That sucks, huh?”

                  Wait. He relates to me. He couldn’t. He’s _annoying._ He can’t be tolerable! I want to hate someone here, and for a reason this time. I don’t just want to hate someone because they are living and breathing the same oxygen as me. Wow. No. This kid is definitely _not_ more than I think he is. He’s an obsessional and worthless dickhead, and I hate him. Please, please tell me I hate him. I must hate him. I have to. I can’t have friends. People like me don’t have friends. I have too many secrets. He’ll make me share them with him, and I can’t do that. I don’t want to hurt him. He’s too happy. I can’t hurt this happy soul. I’m a happiness-killer, but I don’t know if I’m willing to kill this happiness. I can’t befriend him. I hate him. I must hate him. Ugh, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. And trust me, it hurts that I can’t befriend him. No, I hate him. Don’t I? I’m supposed to, anyways. We begin to walk down the hallway, together, as much as I dread it.

                  “Yeah! I hate socializing. Why is it social anyways?”

                  He laughs. I made him laugh. Ew. His laugh makes me want to set myself on fire. Yeah, my usual hating streak for Frank has started again, and I’m quite happy it’s back. I never liked complementing him. It kind of hurts to know I’ll never be able to be his friend any day of the week. If I can’t befriend him, why should I mentally complement him, if it will never matter and he can never hear? It’s fucking useless, that’s what it is. We walk to the elevator, and I watch as he selects the ‘down’ arrow button. I view as it flicks to sprightly life.

                  “Exactly! I don’t have many friends, I guess. And I wonder that a lot. I asked them, and they just said if we eat in our rooms, there’s a chance we don’t eat at all. When the lunches weren’t monitored, people weren’t eating. Long story short, people died and the duplex was being charged lots of money. It kind of makes sense, but I tend to believe that it’s a fake story to cover up the real one. I’d love to know the real reason.”

                  I nod, completely agreeing with him. Uh, the resemblance is uncanny. Yeah. What a lame-o. I hate him. I hate, hate, hate him. I really hate him! Um, of course I do. I really hate him. He’s _so_ rude and despicable. I can’t even look at him. Although, I guess I’ll just have to deal with it. What a shame…I suppose. We don’t speak the entire elevator ride down, and when we walk to the cafeteria. It’s more of a ’86 dining room in the Addams’s Family. It’s kind of creeping me out. I want to leave. I hate the mood in this room. I hate it, a lot. Ugh. I just wan to leave. I can just skip lunch, for the rest of my life. That’ll work. Oh, don’t forget what Frank said. It’s _required._ Not like I was actually listening or anything.

                  Lunch is more of a buffet, and did I mention I love buffets? A lot, actually. I mean you can eat whatever you want, and how many of that you want. It’s great, but the thing that really sucks is that other people are here with me. Especially Frank. I wish Frank wouldn’t come. I hope he’d just starve, but he’s too smart for that. He can’t a take a hint. We both walk over to the section of plates and food and such. As in _together_. _Teamwork_. Fuck me. We grab our plates in unison, and select food onto our plates. I select: a hamburger, a group, or whatever it’s a called, of green grapes, and a bottle of water. I look over, and he’s selected a veggie burger, green grapes, and a bottle of cola.

                  “Hey. Let’s sit over there!”

                  What? I’m not sitting with this dork. Dork. Dork. Dork. Dork. _Dork_. I can’t sit with someone this annoying. He better not categorize us as friends. We aren’t even associates. I barely know the guy, beside that he’s a creep, and he can play bass…or guitar, or whatever. I don’t even know if he _can_ play. He could just say that. He probably sucks, right? I can’t sit with him. He’s a lying, obnoxious poser. And he’s welcoming. We are not friends, and we never will. I can’t get too close to him. I’ll hurt him. I just will. I can’t do that to him. He’s so happy. He’ll kill me with his happiness, Jesus Christ. Before I can analyze what I’m doing, we are both walking to a table in the corner. What am I doing? We aren’t friends. No. No. Hmm, maybe if I just ignore him and give him the ‘silent treatment’ he’ll get a fucking hint, and leave me alone. But he obviously can’t take a hint. One can try. We both…wait. I hate that word. _Both._ No. We didn’t _both_ do anything. I did something, and he did it at the same time. Copier. Copiers make me sick. I set my tray on the table, and so does he. What am I doing? I’m crazy. It’s official; I’m crazy. A perfectly sane person wouldn’t do this. I’m clearly telling myself to not do this, and to scream in his face that I hate him, but I’m not. I’m _befriending_ the creep. What is fucking wrong with me? We… I mean, _I_ sit down, and so does he. Fucking copycat.

                  “So… is it your first day here too?”

                  “First day”? It’s his first day too? He seems like he knows everything. Wow, you think you know a guy, then ‘boom’. Well, I don’t know a lot of things about him, when I think of it. 1: He’s really fucking annoying. 2: He can supposedly play the guitar. 3: He’s good at bribing people that he doesn’t even know, into putting an ad into their brochure. Sneaky, Frank. 4: He can’t take a hint. 5: His name is Frank. 6: He has pretty brown eyes. Wait, ugly brown eyes…oh what does it matter? I said it. Done. I can’t erase what I’ve said. I said it, and I meant it.

                  “Uh…do you know anyone here?”

                  I narrow my eyes at him, trying to emphasize that I’m not replying to him, ever. Nope-ity, nope, nope. And, I know you. That’s it – you little shit! Whoa. That rhymed! I’m a poet! Maybe I should take up poetry…or maybe not. It would be ineptly dark. Can’t like that happen. Nope-ity, nope, nope. I can’t let anything bad happen. I’m befriending this person; I’m obviously going to spill everything to him. We are going to be close. No matter how many times I say ‘I hate you’ or how many ignorance I cast on him, he won’t get the hint. We will get super-super close. We are going to be friends, and people like me can’t have friends. I have too many secrets, and with him I’m bound to spill at least one to him. He’s going to be the reason I’m thrown in jail. I can’t let that happen. He looks normal – he doesn’t have secrets. When I think he’ll give some to me, I’d spill mine. I’d spill all of mine. He’d be scared of me. I can’t lose another friend. I’ve lost too many. I don’t need a friend. I don’t want a friend. People like me don’t have friends. I can’t have friends, and as much as I want to warn him, I can’t. I can’t even talk to him. He’ll suppose we’re friends. I can’t hurt this kind soul, with my cold, empty soul. I can’t. As much as I want to be his friend, _I can’t_.

                  “Silent treatment?”

                  I look up, and come up at eye-level with him. He’s reading my mind. This little creep is reading my mind. I really hope he can’t, because he’d hear my secrets. He’d know all my secrets. No, he can’t. Mind reading is impossible, right? His eyes seem solemn. He’s a creepy, mind reading genius! Although, he’s still creepy.

                  “Okay, can you just tell me your name? Then I’ll leave you alone. I swear.”

                  The thing is, he won’t leave me alone. He knows all my secrets, so how could he possibly leave me alone? He’d need to know more about me, if he knows my secrets. He’s a cop, or he’s in the FBI. That’s the only logical thing for him to be. And he’s a bass…I mean guitar prodigy to cover up her actual occupation! I knew it! But…should I tell him my name? Do I say my fake name? What if he _really is_ in the FBI or something, and he knows I’m giving my fake name? Will he just throw in behind bars that quickly? Do they even have hearts? Eh, I’ll just go with my gut. Cops don’t have that perky of an attitude.

                  “Uh…Hunter.”

                  He scans me. He’s really trying hard to not make me cover up his FBI job. He can’t be one. I don’t believe it. It’s not obvious enough. He would be in a suit and tie, and not destroyed black jeans and a band tee. Black Flag. This kid’s cooler than I assumed, and totally less cop-ish than I assumed he was.

                  “Hunter? You don’t look like a Hunter.”

                  Wow, way to ruin my plan. I definitely look a Hunter – I look like a Hunter if you don’t want to be hurt. I’m a Hunter, whether it’s my given name or not. Now I’m a Hunter, so deal with it: whether I look like a Hunter or not. This kid is attempting to fucking ruin my life and my scheme. It’s perfectly thought out, and it can’t fail, unless Frank has anything to do with it. Fuck me. I nod, trying to signal that I am clearly a Hunter. Lies. I’m lying. I’m so worthless – I’m a lying, worthless accidental-befriender. What is wrong with me? I’ve lived years without friends, and all of a sudden, this stalker comes across, and all of that is thrown away? Now I actually like him enough to befriend him? I just…can’t. I’ll hurt him, or I’ll scare him. I can’t do that, to such an animated individual. I’m heartless, but I’m not that heartless.

                  “Well, I will keep my promise. You answered your name, and I said I would leave. Do you still want me to leave?”

                  He rises from his seat, sighing as loud and obnoxious as he can. Thanks for that. I shake my head, violently, trying it prove my point. What am I doing? I want him to go. We will bond. We can’t bond. I can’t even be in a ten-foot radius of this kid. No matter what I do, I will patronize him. It sucks, because my entire life I’ve learnt to say ‘no’, but with Frank, I can’t? What is wrong with me? It’s Frank. I blame Frank. Its always Frank. He raises his eyebrow, turning it into a sly-brow, and lowers himself back onto the bench. He watches me as he takes a bite of his veggie burger. Whoa, I forgot it was lunchtime. Sigh. I’m not even going to touch my food. I’m not _starving_ , or anything.

                  “What? Really? Are you serious?”

                  I nod, and his eyes grow big. What? Has he not heard that before? Has no one ever said ‘yes’? I didn’t even think I’d say yes. I’m supposed to despise this guy, and look where I am now. I knew I wouldn’t _not_ befriend his kind soul. Or, I ‘d try to. As annoying as he is, I just feel I need a friend right now. I’ve been friendless my entire life, and I guess it’s very hard to admit that actually having a friend would be nice. I’ve always been used to hating people, and not liking them. Sorry, Frank, it’s not you – it’s me. No, I’m totally kidding – it’s you.

                  “Wow. I just…thought you would say no. Sorry…”

                  I want to say ‘it’s fine’ but I have better self-control than that. I can’t talk to him, because remember? Silent treatment? It will be over in a little bit, and I can tell. I just want to tell him a lot of things, but I don’t. I _can’t_.

                  “Well, cool! Wow, uh, okay. Uh. Cool.”

                  “Is that all you say?” 

                  Oops. There goes my ‘silent treatment’ record. Five fucking minutes. Nice going…Hunter. ‘Hunter’. I can’t even call myself Hunter. I’m not Hunter – and I can never be. I’m not Hunter! I want to say my real name, but I can’t. Legal rights apply. Fuck you legal stuff. Fuck you ‘if you do this you will go to jail’. Fuck it. Fuck everything. I hate everything. I hate this situation I am. I am forced to lie to my…acquaintance. I don’t like to lie, despite all the times I have lied. And it’s been to save my own ass. Why can’t I lie to save someone else? Why do I always call people selfish, when in reality, there’s no one more selfish that I? When I said that, his opened mouth shut rapidly – his eyes like saucers. He looks like he’s about to cry. If I was regular me, I wouldn’t care at all. But, now, I feel bad. I feel _bad_. I don’t feel bad. I have never, ever, _ever_ felt bad in my entire life. What is wrong with me? Now, it’s all Frank’s fault.

                  “N-no. you know; if you don’t want me to be here, I can just…”

                  He’s about to say ‘go’, but I don’t want him to go. I want a friend. I really fucking _need_ a friend, Frank. He is the only possibility I have of having a friend – he doesn’t understand. I need someone to lean on. I need someone to worry about me when I’m gone. I need someone to feel empathy for me. I just…need someone. Someone is all, and I think Frank would fit the position almost perfectly.

                  “No! Don’t leave! Please, stay…I’m sorry.”

                  What am I _doing_? I’ve never felt sorry before, and I’d like to keep it that way, but with Frank…he’s making me into someone I’m not! He’s _changing_ me! This child _must_ be insane! I knew it! So, he has secrets, therefore, he’s not a cop. Cops don’t have secrets. Cops aren’t insane. He is insane, or I think. He has to be, as much as I don’t want him to be, no one is simply that perky and annoying. Everyone is depressed, one time in his or her life. This kid has _never_ felt depression. Never. Nope-ity, nope, nope.

                  “You’re _sorry_?”

                  He smiles, his pale white cheeks sparkling to a rosy pink color. Jesus Christ, he is genuinely happy. I don’t think I have ever seen a living creature this happy. No one is simply this happy, so now I just feel good inside. I, being the most selfish and inconsiderate person ever, feel good inside about someone’s happiness that I cause? Who am I anymore? Well, that doesn’t necessarily matter right about now. The thing is, I made a living person _smile_. I made someone’s self-esteem ascent by a few numbers, and that feels pretty good. I haven’t felt this good since…I have never really felt good since my childhood, which I don’t remember at all. Thank you, Frank, because the amount of happiness I just caused you, I received back with your satisfaction. You know, when someone says ‘the prize is the satisfaction of knowing you helped someone’ actually works. I feel so good, that I’m willing to _not_ hate him for a little while.

                  “Yes, as in I apologized.”

                  Wow, I’m so sarcastic it hurts. He laughs, looking at me again, his eyes are huge. His eyes are brown – did I mention that before? You know, because they are _beautiful_ , Jesus Christ. Oh my _God_ , they are so precious and auburn-brown it makes me want to shove my head in a pillow and scream my head off of pure jealousy. I wish I were as pretty as this man. He is perfect – me? I’m worthless. There’s a difference, you know. I’m an insolent, pointless, unkind person who lost all their possible empathy and sensitivity during my life. Frank has changed me, and I never wanted to be changed. I don’t _want_ to change, but I’m changing without realizing, and that sucks. I sure hope that I don’t have to majorly change to be Frank’s friend. If I’m rude, I’m rude. Am I supposed to change to please this man? I don’t change for _any_ man.

                  “Aw! Thanks! I think we are going to be great friends!”

                  He drapes his arms around my shoulders, pulling myself closer to him. He embraces me, still smiling like an idiot. Damn, why does this kid have to be so cute? How old even is he? Is it bad that I’m calling him ‘kid’ if I don’t even know his real age? Anyways, this whole ‘hugging thing’ isn’t working for me. I’m not a hugging person. I hate hugging, and I always have – I always will. But what is it that I don’t care when Frank hugs me? I _should_ , I should hate him, but I don’t. I think I might _like_ this kid, which is weird, because I’m never liked anyone as a friend in a long time. I smile back, looking down at him, meeting his gaze. He’s still smiling – I can conclude that his smile is contagious. Wow; I haven’t smiled in five years. Do you see what this kid has does to be? I nestle my head in-between the crook separating his shoulder blade and his head. I pull him towards my body, and squeeze him. He transfers his head into the same crook but on me. Why are e we hugging? Why am I even letting this creature touch me? Well, just give it up – you know you want to be his friend also. And Frank wouldn’t just hug anyone like that. He _likes_ you, and as cold and heartless as I am, I can’t show him I feel the same way. I can always comment how beautiful he is, and how good he can play bass…I mean guitar, but it has to be in my head. I have to save this kid from myself destruction. I just can’t roll this kid into my own mess, called my life. He’s too nice, and I would hate to see him cry when he finds out who I really am. But for now, I’ll just hug him, you know, to show him that I can be his friend, as hard as I try not to become close with him. Jesus Christ, that will be seriously hard when he’s cutting off my blood circulation with his force of hugging. Note to self: he is a hugging person. I hug him back, tighter this time and more than ever, for revenge. I’m a revenge maniac, if you haven’t already seen. He pulls away, still gasping for air. Hey, Momma doesn’t play around with her revenge. He laughs, and takes me into the most common boy revenge thing: the noogie. I laugh, as he puts me into the worst headlock ever, and messes up my hair.

                  _Hey._ Maybe for the first time in a long time, I’m not upset about sharing the same oxygen with another person.

 

 

 


	2. Always Be Wary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can we forget the past? I miss you - I mean it. And if love is made of glass, can we pick up the pieces?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming. I'm very excited for the future of this story. I'm positive you guys will find it interesting, I hope. I sure do. I love where the story is and where its going. (And today's my birthday, so I'm posting today because I'll be busy this weekend.) Thanks for reading.  
> xo,  
> Amanda.

After that awkward and forward interaction with Frank, we stopped talking. With our indefinite silence, I took it as my cue to leave. I just dumped my uneaten and undamaged lunch tray into the trashcan, and setting the plastic tray all my food was laid on in its desired pile on top of the trashcan. I just walked up one flight of stairs, then unlocked my room and allowed myself in. I fell on the bed, to where I am right now. I swear, it’s been twenty minutes, and I’m still lying here, staring at my ceiling. Not one single thought has passed through my head since then, and I’m wondering why. All right, that’s my only wonder, at the moment. I’ve just really been staring at a blank ceiling, wondering what the hell just happened, because I have no idea.

                  Why did he hug me?

                  He could’ve gone the entire conversation without comprising my torso, and so could I. I didn’t want to hug him – it just didn’t seem logical or reasonable in the situation, but I rolled with it. I rolled with it, because Frank wanted to roll with it, and I would do what Frank did. Yes, I thought for myself; I thought for myself plenty of times, but I just couldn’t upset Frank or anything. As much as it was like me to hurt him, to make him cry and upset, I didn’t. I just didn’t, as much as I tried to pry a reason from my small, desiccated hands, I couldn’t, and so I can just make up one, and that’s what I did. What I thought of was that I had too, to spare his feelings and all. Although I know that’s not the real reason I hugged him back – but it’s too mushy and weird to actually admit it – even if it _is_ inside my head. Whether it’s oral declaration or silent one, I still thought it, and that’s as painful enough. It’s hard to admit, so I try not to. I’m one to hide from my feelings.

                  I wonder if Frank is back in his residence right now. When I abandoned him back there, he looked mad. Well, his eyebrow was side upwards, and he looked more confused than mad, I would say. I heard him shout, “Where are you going?” and “Are you going to get something” as I raised from our table, and made my way to the big garbage can, where I threw away my untouched lunch. After that, I just left the lunchroom, trying to not look back at him. And man, did I really want to see the expression on his face when I _didn’t_ sit back down with him. I bet I looked so rude, and that’s what I am. I’m a malicious, pitiless person, and I’m proud of it. Is that bad?

                  I wonder if he’s mad at me now. I wonder if he’s thinking me, like I’m thinking of him. I wonder if he’s still sitting at our lunch table, wondering what I had just done and why. I wonder if he’s lying on his bed, too, staring at the ceiling and wondering what he just did. And regretting it. I bet Frank doesn’t have any regrets. I bet he lives a regret-free life, while here I am, living my life full of regrets. We are total opposites, it’s scary – I mean, he’s ecstatic about everything, then there’s me, not even shedding an expression or any enthusiasm with anyone’s sentences or conversations with me. He has tons and tons of friends – I don’t have any. And he’s beautiful – I am not. I hope he thinks he’s beautiful too, but if he doesn’t, I would love to be the one to tell him that. I just really hope he is thinking of me also, because I would hate to be the only one. Damn, that would be awkward. Well, it can’t be anymore awkward than it is right at this very moment.

                  I bet he isn’t even wondering about me. I bet he has other things on his plate right now; he probably has other important things to be thinking about than…Hunter…me. I can’t even call myself Hunter with a straight face on. I’ve lied plenty times before, but not about my name before. Well, okay, maybe once or twice for safety purposes also, but not to someone as clingy and _lovely_ as Frank. It’s weird to lie to someone that it actually means something to them, because the other people didn’t care and it didn’t show any significance to their lives – but Frank. Oh Frank. He _cares_ what my name is. He’ll think and think and think about my fake name, and it makes me nervous. He could literally search my fucking face. Or he could just search the name ‘Hunter Wilson’ on a search link, and if my face didn’t come up, _boom_. Or maybe he could just see through my lying, yellow, gritted teeth. No one has, except this natural sociopath. Stalker. I knew his stalking hobby would backfire on me someday – also known as today. 

                  Just before, I can think another thought or make another move; I hear a loud source of knocking ascend at my door. I don’t even sit up or move any limb on my body – who is there? Who could possibly be there? Who would want to talk to me? I was insane, and I’m positive everyone here knew it just by the looks I give at the suspicious employees in the hallways and the lobby. I know, just from the silence I hear when I do so, and the looks people also give me.

                  “Hunter?”

                  Holy fuck – he knew my name. Nobody here knew my ‘fake’ name, yet, except for Frank. Jesus Christ – why is _Frank_ at my door? Didn’t he have better things to do than annoy the living shit out of me?

                  I slouch my arched back some more, knowing that I can’t dodge Frank’s convivial gesture this time. He knows I’m in here, because when I tried to escape him during lunchtime, he saw me leave. Where else did I have to go? The world? No, I’m banned from every place here. My face and real name is plastered on every pole and building in this town and state. I can’t leave this building – and I know I’m bound to get caught some day or another. And Frank will be the fucking reason why.

                  I groan of discomfort, of actually having to move. I wasn’t even preparing to move for a good few hours. I didn’t want to move, because I had a lot to think about and _not_ sacrificing. I was bound to fucking sacrifice my soul to this too-perky, enthusiastic, obnoxious, disgusting piece of shit. We are becoming friends – and something was fucking inevitable to force to bring up closer together, to become friends. Fuck. I thought I mentioned enough that I can’t have friends, because I’ll spill something that I’ve done or personal and illegal information to them.

                  Karma sucks.

                  I actually stand up from my bed, whose sheets have still not been changed, and walk to the door. Laziness and fatigue trailing with me on each of my steps. My arms are draped to my sides, which still hasn’t moved. My back is slouched, resembling the lazy feeling I feel at this moment. I just want to flop onto my disgusting-colored bedspread and take a long, long nap, or perhaps a coma. Whatever took me away from the constant people trying to find me and arrest me? I’m so wanted for the police, it worries me. I’m certain that I’m going to be locked up some time – this is the last place I can come to hide. I am just hoping that Frank can keep his big mouth shut, for me.

                  I reach the door, leaning all my weight onto it. I stick my eye into a random piece of the mahogany-colored wood. I was not aware that this apartment did not come with a peephole. That would be very useful in the future, so, I presume that I will have to complain about that too. So far, this building has two stars and a half for their service of freedom-wise and convenience-wise. Maybe they can build one for me, or that can just whack a hole through my door. I could care less what they did with my door – as long as I was safe, and I knew who was outside my door. As long as I knew nobody from the government or the police force knows where I am, I’m fine. I’m fine for now. They will find out soon. I can’t be safe for that long.

“Frank?”

There’s a silence for a second. Is he thinking? Is it not Frank at my door? Is the actual person behind my door trying to come up with a Frank accent or any excuse? Ugh, it sucks when you realize you’re the most wanted person in the world right now, and you are forced to think that your friend is actually part of the government that want to capture me and throw me behind bars. I want to trust he’s there, but one actual time of trust could result in me being carried away by men in blue suits and gold badges.

“Yes, Hunter, now open your door.”

Bossy much? I would regularly mind the tone of anger and determination in his voice, and the guts that he has to actually retort that to me, but I can sense that whatever he has to talk to me about is urgent. I mean, if he has the fucking guts to forcefully knock on _my_ door, when he knows that I _clearly_ marched away from him an hour or so ago from pure annoyance, and he knows that I’m annoyed and tired and that it’s m y first day. Shouldn’t he just leave me alone? God, this proves my point that this man can’t take a hint.

I sigh, placing my hand on the metallic door handle. What if it _isn’t_ Frank? What if I open the door open to the government, and before I can object, they turn me around and handcuff me? I can’t be arrested that fast – I am expecting to last in this place longer than I thought. Frank could be a part of the government, nah. I just couldn’t believe it for one split second. But I do remember reading somewhere, that the government usually play a certain character to catch a particular victim or person-on-the-loose. Fuck. I do not stand a chance – I trust people way too easily. I twist the handle, pulling it back.

Frank walks in my room, not even caring to notice my stunned facial expression. He’s very bossy and forward today, and I don’t like it. I’m actually very relieved, because he could’ve been a clown for all I know. I hate clowns.

“I have to talk to you about something…uh…Hunter.” Why does he always do that when he says my fake name? Does he know it’s fake? How would he know? I’ve only told, at least, three people that, excluding my family members and stuff. They kind of birthed me, and gave me that name, so they have no choice but to know, unless I change my name without their consent. It’s not like we keep in contact anymore, so they wouldn’t care. Well, they probably care about me now, when they found out how many zero’s the reward was if someone turned me in. Luckily, Frank hasn’t figured that out yet. And when he does, I’m dead meat. See y’all in prison.

“What is it?” His eyes don’t solicit of concern or anything – more of anxiety and eagerness. That’s an unusual combination, but that’s okay. Whatever gets him out of here faster, I would do, if that meant not criticizing and acknowledging every movement and facial expression he makes. I smile, trying to dial down the tension in the room. He’s shaking – I repeat, he is fucking _shaking_. I think that is completely exorbitant and specious, because he probably just has to tell me or ask me something, and then leave, right? Again, whatever gets him out of here faster.

“I…uh…I was leaving the…err…lunchroom, and the administrator lady…uh…gave me this.” He is holding a folded white piece of paper. It looks regular, so what must be so important about it? It’s stashed uncomfortably strong in his hands, as if he didn’t want anyone to see it when he came up here. Hey, that paper could be anything. It could be a search warrant for all I know. Once he catches me looking at it, he realizes he’s failed at keeping that paper secretive, so he just unrolls the folded paper out, and starts to read it.

“It just says because my apartment is invested…”

Being the ignorant bitch I am, I interrupt him with my arrogant question: “Invested with what exactly?”

I’m not buying this ‘my apartment is invested’ gig. It is _not_ invested. He is here to steal me, and take his lots-of-money reward. He probably knows me, and he knows what I’ve done; or he could just have not searched my name, and he just wants the money. I understand that people want the money, but fuck, if I’m so fucking broke, I’d be willing to turn myself in too. It’s selfish, yes, but money. In this country, money is more important than love, and that sickens me.

Frank should just leave; I don’t want him here.

“Termites. Moving on – now where was I? Oh! Considering it’s invested and such, I can’t stay in my apartment. I could just buy another apartment, but the secretary lady said it would cost a lot less for me if I lived it with a friend. Is that okay?”

No. He is not staying in here with me. I only have one bed; oh shit. Oh, holy fucking shit. If he fucking suggests that idea, he will be thrown out that door faster than he can say ‘Frank.’ And, termites? Termites are probably the least common creature to ever be set loose in someone’s house – well, except for unicorns and stuff, but he didn’t say unicorns. His stupidity and lack of cleverness is quite funny.

And, why should I let him stay with me – since when were we friends? I barely know the fucking guy; seconds ago, I was criticizing him, and now he’s living with me? I don’t even know how long he will be forced to stay with me. I just…can’t. If he stays with me, I see him more, therefore, I have a larger chance of spilling everything, and that can’t happen. _He_ could turn me in. I will see him everyday – that’s twenty-one more hours of the day for him to get to know me and for me to get close to him. That’s one hundred forty-seven hours in one week. That’s six hundred thirty hours this month. And do you know how many hours in a year I have to convince everything? It’s seven thousand six hundred sixty-five. That’s seven thousand six hundred sixty-five hours I have of alone time with Frank. That’s seven thousand six hundred sixty-five hours I could confess everything to him. That’s seven thousand six hundred sixty-five hours I have to get too close to him. That’s seven thousand six hundred sixty-five hours I have to fall in love with him. I already know I’m gay. Living with him could be the death of me – literally. And to make these matters worse, that’s four hundred fifty-nine thousand nine hundred minutes I have each year.

“No.”

His saucer-shaped eyes wither down to regular chocolaty-brown colored eyes. The keen smile on this face shrivels to a reedy, microscopic line. The arms that were upright, and helping to hold the paper up are now slouched to his side – he drops the paper on the floor, too, for dramatic effect. Now, his chocolaty-colored eyes are filled with tears. His cheeks that were once rosy and full of color are now monochrome and flooded with clear tears. The empathy drops on me like an anvil. The realization passes over me like a bomb. I never realized where being an asshole could really get you.

“Please, Hunter. I told you – I don’t have any friends to lean on beside you. Please, Hunter. I will do _anything_ , just please. I need a place to stay. Just…please.”

I half-groan and half-sigh, knowing that his work of sympathy has surely worked. Why do I function this way? I mean, I liked it much better when I didn’t care what people did or what people said, I was rude and didn’t fucking care at all. But _no._ I have to be nice. But it feels nice to have someone begging to me again, and because I said no to them. I feel in power, sort of. Well, as in power as I can in a shitty hotel room with a stalker/liar/creeper. Again, as in power as I can get. Hey, it’s still power.

“Fine, just shut up. Do you have your stuff or…?”

He grins; as I watch all the colors that were properly on this face appear back to it. His rosy cheeks arrive back, same as the color to his lips and his eyes. I love to see his face light up – it makes my entire world light up for that split second I see it. He’s gorgeous; isn’t it illegal for someone to be this gorgeous? Okay, when I get thrown in jail, I will pledge a suggestion to arrest him for his fascination. Fuck him, and his beautifully constructed cheekbones. Jesus Christ – those things will be the fucking death of me. He moves to the hallway, through the still open door, and pulls out two full duffle bags of clothes and belongings.

“I’m prepared.”

He giggles, as he sets them on my bed – is it _our_ bed now? Ugh, do I really have to share a bed with this loser? Maybe they have a spare mattress that he can sleep on until we figure things out? I don’t want to share a bed with…Frank, because that will mean we will be brought closer – literally. He probably sleeps in his underwear. Wait, what if he doesn’t sleep with anything on? Yeah, that would _definitely_ drift us closer together. But he’s probably straight, so he’d think it’s weird too. I’m still homosexual, and I find it strange. I haven’t even fallen in love since I was about five, and that was with my daycare manager. And ever since then, I’ve sucked at not falling for someone. So, sleeping naked with this scenic being could definitely push me over the edge and I was destined to fall in love with him. Fuck.

“Uh…great. Should we unpack your stuff now…?”

He nods, unzipping his first, cobalt bag. I try to help him, but he blocks it from my reach. I wonder if that’s his murdering bag – filled with kitchen knives, explosives, ropes, scalpels, daggers, shots, pills, axes, hatchets, straight razors, hunting knives, bottles of alcohol, deadly pesticides, henbane, some of that deadly nightshade stuff or anything to fucking kill me. Or it could just be the bag where he stuffs his intimates, such as underwear and stuff like that. I wonder if he has…um…condoms and lube and stuff in there too.

It wouldn’t be any significance to me, at all, but it sure but be hilarious if he has that in this bag regularly, and is sharing a bed with another male. Or maybe it’s just placed with regular clothing, and he’s embarrassed of his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirts and footie-pajamas…unless he doesn’t sleep with anything on. Holy fuck – I am not picturing this guy sleeping with me naked. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I told you I was insane. A normal person wouldn’t fucking daydream of a stranger and stalker naked. That’s just plain creepy and wrong.

“Yeah; I got this bag. You get the other one.”

He throws the black duffle bag at me, as he continues to drag all of his belongings out onto…our bed. Fuck. I really, really, really need to call customer service when he leaves or something. I can’t sleep with him – especially if he doesn’t sleep when anything on. _I_ sleep with an undershirt or a t-shirt or whatever I feel like, then boxers. At least I sleep with clothing on. I just hope that he sleeps with some sort of strip of fabric on him. I’ve already admitted that’s he’s handsome, and that’s enough for me. Fuck, look at how his biceps flex as he tugs every article of clothing onto the bed.

I open my assigned bag, and begin to analyze it. If he is a murderer, he has to have some container of sleeping pills or switchblade around in here somewhere. I’m not completely convinced he’s not a murderer. He is very dark and mysterious, you know. All that’s in here is clothing. Dammit – I thought some mysterious and murderous thing would be in his bag, but no. The most embarrassing thing in this bag is his shampoo and his underwear.

I fold all his clothes, and organize them into piles. Shirts are in one pile: pants and jeans in another. I just left his intimates and other stuff inside of there. As I do this, the room is silent, well – _I’m_ silent. He’s speaking to himself, but it’s so quiet that I can’t even hear him. He’s both making fun of himself and criticizing himself for asking me to stay with him, or he’s rather excited and is thanking himself for the pure idea. He better not be excited for the ‘sharing a bed’ thing, because that’d be weird.

Why do I keep thinking of it?

He grabs the piles of clothing I sorted and places it into the drawers that I haven’t used. He is very clever, wow. I just leave his intimates, or whatever they’re called, in his bag, not wanting to fold them and make him feel very awkward. Again, we are going to share a bed. And _again_ , I don’t care. I’m calling customer service later.

“Thanks for helping…Hunter,” he thanks with an unimportant smirk.

Okay, why does he actually stutter like that when he says my name? He must know it’s a fake replacement for my real name – I never said it obviously or anything, so how could he know? He just…couldn’t. He pulls the duffle bag I organized, and checks its contents to make sure nothing else is in there. When he sees that I left his intimates in the bag, he blushes and forcefully stuffs it in the third drawer down.

“You’re welcome, Frank. Is there anything you want me to help you with also?”

He shakes his head, as he stands back up and flops onto our bed lazily. Fuck, every time I look at that bed, it makes my stomach become empty, and I hate it. A part of me wants to call customer service and complain but at the same time, the other part of me doesn’t want to call them and let it be? Ugh, this really sucks, because I can tell that he, on the inside, really doesn’t find me attractive and can’t stand to lay next to me tonight.

Maybe I should just not worry about the bed situation – if he doesn’t like it, he can complain and we can change it, but as of right now, whether he sleeps naked or not, we are sleeping in that bed together. Wow, that sounding much more demanding and stronger inside my head. Fuck. It sounds as if I _want_ to share a bed with him – which is not the case. Fuck it – I do.

“Uh…no. I just, want to sleep. Is that all right?”

I nod, extending my hands out toward the bed. I would not disturb his slumber. I would not disturb his slumber. I would not disturb his slumber. I would not disturb his slumber. I better not disturb his slumber.

He leers, pulling the covers out of neat position, and over himself. He snuggles his head in a pillow, and tries to drift to a calm rest. I wonder if he hasn’t sleep in weeks either. To make him not think I’m a stalker, I tear my eyes off his fatigued body, and to the chair. In seconds, I’m slouched in the chair. I try my hardest to not stare at his gorgeous body, because it’s quite fucking exciting to watch him breathe. Now, if it were someone else breathing, I could care less. But it’s _his_ handsome body escalating up, as I hear him inhale the oxygen. Then, he lowers all the air he had just taken in, and I hear it all exhale out again. Damn, I could watch that for hours on end. But, I can’t. That would be creepy.

But…he’s so beautiful; it hurts.

That was sappy and quite weird – I’ve never liked anyone before – as a friend or more than a friend in my entire lifespan, but why now? I guess Frank is just…different. Everyone I’ve ever met, I’ve hated. I’ve hated them more than anything. He couldn’t have changed me. I’m heartless. I’m cruel. I’m a horrible, horrible person. I’m wanted by the police for a bad thing I did. How could he like me? How could I change? I haven’t changed. I don’t change. I’m going to be heartless and I’m going to be cruel for the rest of my life. One person can’t change that; right?

He looks tired. The bags under his eyes have emphasized incredibly, and now I can actually see that he probably hasn’t slept in months. But why not? He looked so happy, so why would he not be getting any rest? I thought he had to perfect life. And perfect-life people always get the perfect amount of sleep. If he was a ‘perfect-life person’, then how come he’s not getting a perfect amount of rest? I don’t care how long I sleep or I sleep at all – although, I do care if he does or how many hours he does. I care about him, and if he gets enough sleep.

I wonder if his life sucks too, and he just can’t sleep, thinking about how much it fucking sucks. But how could some a beautiful man face something so…ugly? He wouldn’t deserve it. On the contrary, I barely know him. What’s that saying? Uh…the best people face the worst things? Good people do some bad things? Whatever it is, it means that he has done something bad, or he’s faced something horrific. I think. I just fucking hope he’s okay, and I hope he gets a good night of rest tonight. I just hope he forgets that we are sharing the bed. Fuck.

How would I tell him? When he wakes up, hover over him and say, “Hey. Did you have a good sleep? Cool. Anyways, want to sleep together at eleven or so?” That would be creepy. Ugh, this is harder than I thought.

I stare down the telephone sitting on the nightstand on the other side of the room. I can’t call them; I can’t call for another bed. What if it’s not actually allowed to have someone in your room? What if he has to pay for another person? What if he really is broke, and if I rot him out accidentally, he gets kicked out? What if he gets so mad that he figures out whom I am and notifies the police? I can’t risk being thrown in jail, just because I’m too scared to sleep with another male.

I need to sort my priorities.

He doesn’t even move. Who doesn’t move in their sleep? Isn’t that physically impossible or something? Shouldn’t he roll around or something? This kid is making me think more and more that’s he’s a murderer. But, no matter what he’s done or if he has done anything, it cannot top the thing that I have done. The thing I had done is nothing to be proud of or brag about. But, on the positive side, police officers are all over me.

I bet he’s a heavy sleeper, because I, for one, can’t fall asleep or can’t continue sleeping if I feel or I know someone’s eyes are trailing along my body. It seems creepy, for someone to watch you while you’re sleeping. My whole purpose for sleeping is to shut my eyes and shut out everyone in the real world for a few hours or so. But I haven’t had any alone time or any place to sleep for a good three months, so any source of rest would please me at this very moment.

I hope Frank isn’t like that, but what if he is? What if he hasn’t fallen asleep yet, because I’m just menacingly staring as his just raises and lowers? Wow, now I feel like a creeper – probably because I am. But is it my fault he’s so ridiculously good-looking? What if he thinks that I’m a creep, too? He probably is breathing that heavily because he is scared of me. He must know what I’ve done. Everyone does. He’s going to turn me in. He’s going to kidnap me in my sleep; that’s the whole reason why he asked me to let him stay. There probably aren’t even termites in his room. _Liar_.

I just wouldn’t want to wake up him. I mean, if I’m just watching him, and let’s say he hasn’t slept in three months too, and he gets incredibly pissed off because he needed sleep? He could just turn me in if I ever get him mad. Again, I need to fucking sort my priorities.

I stand up, my eyes never leaving his exhausted body. The more times I say, the creepier it gets. But, I swear, if you could see how perfect he looks when he sleeps, you would do the same thing. I tear my eyes away from him, and drag them over to the door. I walk towards it, securing my hands on the doorknob again. I pull it toward my body softly, attempting to not make the door squeak or make any sound to possibly wake up Frank. He looked so peaceful; I would hate to be the iceberg on this serene ship-ride.

I look back at him one more time, to make sure he hasn’t squirmed, moved or opened his eyes at all, but he hasn’t. Oh my God, just staring at his face makes me forget about my own problems. It just makes me forget about everything. How pleasant and placid is that? I smirk to myself one last time, and sneak out the door, closing the door soundlessly.

I wander down the hall, staring at everyone’s doors. Hmm – A366. It’s not blocked off. The door isn’t eaten off. It doesn’t sound as if animal control is in there. He lied to me, through his perfectly straightened, whitened teeth.

I, again, drift my ears away from the door, and place them in front of me. I reach the elevator, and select the ‘down’ arrow button. It luminosities up to life .5 seconds after I pushed it. It opens, revealing it to be empty; it doesn’t surprise me. Lunch ended an hour and a half ago, which meant everyone, was in his or her rooms or out. Just, out. After I had stepped inside, I press the L button, as in Lobby. The doors automatically close, and in seconds, they reopen again and I’m in the lobby. I exit the elevator, and then, before I know it, I’m standing awkwardly in the lobby.

Why is nobody recognizing me?

I pull my black hoodie over my head, just in case, and search the area for any place of food. Well, there’s a coffee shop in the apartment building. As a child, I loved coffee. But that was in public and not with a black hoodie covering my face, scared of tourists and visitors to recognize me and throw me behind bars. A lot can happen in nine years, I suppose. I walk in the line, and hide behind some lady in a red trench coat and expensive-looking boots. Her hood is up also. I wonder if she’s scared of being caught and thrown in jail also – probably not.

Once the red trench coat lady leaves, I step when she was, and order. I don’t make eye contact with her, or him or whatever it was, because she/he/it could surely know who I was. I can’t risk anything.

“Just a black coffee would be great; thank you.” She nods, as she repeats what I had just said to the cook behind her, or whatever it’s called. I make no expression or look as I pass her and her guilty and suspicious looks. I lean on the countertop, where I drink will be placed. I sigh, examining every person’s facial expressions here; making sure nobody here acknowledges me or has any suspicions. But nobody is looking or staring at me. That’s strange. Whenever I travelled anywhere in New York, someone would scream my name, leaving the other people calling the police and shrieking for help.

If I haven’t told you yet, I’m one of the biggest threats in America at the moment.

“Black coffee,” speaks the same annoying employee. She steps aback when she sees how dark and suspicious I am, but she still gives me the coffee. Before she can take a glimpse at my face or place it in my hands, I seize the bottle from her hands and throw the money in her hands, that we once holding my coffee. She glares at me, as I take a seat at an empty table, and as far away from any people as possible. I can’t risk for anyone to recognize me.

I open the lid of my coffee, to check if the woman hadn’t poisoned it, or anything. I highly doubt it, but when you’re someone like me, you learn to not trust anyone or their gestures. It could be a lethal gesture, more than a friendly one. When I am positive she hadn’t infected me, I tear open two sweetener packets and pour it in. After I resume the lid on the top of the coffee cup, I take a long sip. I drift into a long daydream, my head collapsed in my hands.

I’ve never felt so…non-guilty of my previous actions and myself. I’m forgetting about all of that. I actually feel _normal_.

After I had finished my coffee and had thought of everything that I needed to think about, I stood up. I wave to the same employee that had been extremely rude to me earlier. Rude 1: Be nice to people, so they don’t suspect a thing. She steps aback again, saluting me playfully as I exit the colorless and built-in coffee shop. I’ll be sure to visit it again.

I salute to the entire secretary. None of them notice me – all buried in their technologic computers – but one. Shem has peroxided white hair, greying at the tips. She’s an older woman, but she struggles up her hand, and gives me a weak smile. Aw, it warms up my dark and empty heart.

I select the button to the elevator, watching it spring to life once again. I tap my feet on the ground, to the beat of Bohemian Rhapsody. The more of think of it, I haven’t listened to music in the longest time. It’s probably because I threw my cell phone out the window, when I was being buried alive by calls when the word got out that the government wanted me.

I begin to look at the corner of the ceiling, then on the floor. Suddenly, I turn my gaze to right of me. And guess who’s there also? Frank. Is this kid a specialized stalking expert? I mean, wherever I go, he’s right there, five steps in front of me. And how did he know I was done here? Wasn’t he supposed to be asleep? I couldn’t have been gone _that_ long, right?

“Hunter! Where were you?”

He looks like he hadn’t seen me in the longest fucking time. He needs to calm down; I had to only have been gone an hour or so, right? His facial expression is very alarmed, as if he thought I had been murdered. Well, I wasn’t. Why would he think I’ve been murdered? You’re gone for an hour, and the world explodes. I don’t get it? I swear, Frank is a dramatic teenage-girl in a male’s body.

“I was just getting some coffee…?” And just as those words had escaped my mouth, his eyes grow by one million times. He looks like a sword had just plunged him in. He looks like he is about to die from extreme pain. How could someone look in so much pain and grief, when all I had said was I had gotten coffee while he was asleep?

“You got _coffee_? What took you so long?”  He sounds concerned; why would he be concerned, if I was only gone an hour? What would he care for me? He barely knows me. He should care less what happens to me. I’m a monster; who would care for me? Nobody has ever cared for me. Hasn’t he read who I was? Hasn’t he known who I was by now? Hasn’t he known what I’ve done? He shouldn’t be worrying for me. He should be worried for himself. I’m a _monster._

“I don’t know. I was just getting one cup…?” At that, his eyes were practically out of his eye sockets, staring at me. Wow, he’s good at making me feel guilty for something I didn’t even know I did.

“One cup?! You were gone 4 hours,” he explains, making weird gestures toward the coffee shop. I still don’t understand why he’s so fucking concerned about one coffee cup. I mean, no, I don’t understand how I took four hours to take one cup of coffee, but I had a lot to think about. Duh.

“I had to think. Now,” I stare down at my watch to justify the time. It’s 5:47. “It’s time for dinner. C’mon; let’s go.”

He glares at me, as he brushes her shoulder over mine. He tilts his eyebrow downward, into a more provoked look, to make me feel guilt, for dodging his question. But news flash, Frank: I don’t feel anything. I lost all my possible causes of empathy or guilt a couple months ago. I don’t feel love. I don’t feel regular feelings. I don’t convey feelings. They have worn off. I lost them. Therefore, I don’t feel guilty that I didn’t want to speak of it. He would begin to ask me what I was thinking, and I couldn’t answer that truthfully. I was thinking of him.

I follow him, as he guides me to the lunchroom. The entire time we remain silent. I don’t quite know if he’s mad at me, and if he is, what for. Okay, sure, I spent a little extra time taking a cup of coffee, but you can’t blame me. When you have a life like me, you’d kill to have some time to actually think about things, and not have somebody on your tail. I’ve wanted to actually sit in a public restaurant, and to not be recognized. I’ve wanted some public place to actually drink a drink, and think about some things. Being shoved and thrown in your bedroom will get annoying. I, as much as everyone else, need to have some fresh air. I bet he doesn’t understand, but leaving an apartment is much harder than it looks, honey. And you’re talking to the master to walking through places and getting out of places without a movement, stare or noise.

We resume in the usual position: I get the cheese pizza and a bottle of water, and so has Frank.

It took me only seconds to realize that my hood was still draped over my head. I bet Frank is really scared, and thinks I’m some mental terrorist, but I can’t take it off. I can’t risk someone recognizing. Although the coffee shop was a success, that doesn’t mean the lunchroom could. That doesn’t mean the entire building could. While I was in the coffee shop, I could fucking see my face plastered on the pole through the window. Did anyone even look at me? No. Did anyone think of talking to me? Again, no, but that could have been from terror.

We walk to the same table that we sat in at lunchtime. He sits in front of me again. Much like a kindergartener, Frank’s legs are crossed over each other. Or, how most children put it, he ‘crisscrosses applesauces’ his legs, but on a table bench. I hope he isn’t scared of touching me. He knows who I am. He can’t touch me. He is scared of touching me. He is scared that I’ll hurt him. I would never hurt him though.

“Hunter,” he states; his tone loud and mad. Why would he be mad? All I did was drink coffee. If that’s illegal, execute me. His eyes never leave my face, although it is hidden pretty well by my hood. He can’t see through. He can’t know who I am. He can’t. I can’t lose another possible friend. I need a friend. Why do I have to be so intimidating and make it so obvious? I cup my hands over my eyes, to try to contain all my thoughts...and so Frank can’t see who I am. I think he would be the last person I would want all my thoughts to explode over.

I bet he’d still cute.

“You weren’t in the coffee shop to just have a sip of soy latte, were you?”

Um, excuse you. I had a black coffee – a manly black coffee. Soy lattes are stupid, wimpy and pathetic. And gay. Oh, very gay. Yeah, I’m gay, but do I want the whole world to know that? No. And anyways, on the flyers, it says I’m gay. Therefore, if I got a soy latte, it would be a sure giveaway that I was gay, so they’d know. You know me. Always thinking.

“Yes, I did, Frank,” I reply, trying my hardest to emphasize the word ‘did’. Why won’t he believe me? Well, I suppose, if he did happen to know who I was, he wouldn’t trust me. No one should trust me. No one should befriend me. I should just live alone, and rot in my bedroom. That’s what I deserve.

“No, you didn’t, that’s the fucking thing, Hunter!” He screams, uncrossing his legs, so they are on the floor, holding him up from his standing position. His back is arched, and he is in front of my face. He’s going to find out whom I am. The second he flips off that hoodie, my life will crumble before my eyes. Everyone is watching us – mostly because Frank swore at me really loudly. Everyone heard it. These walls transfer sound onto each other, making things loudly than they really are.

Now, Frank is crawled over the table, the collar of my hoodie in hand. He grits his teeth angrily at me. I tend to get scared at these types of events, so, a force of past experience, I start to whimper. I don’t whimper of happiness. That would be abnormally weird. But, I’ve seen this happen before. I’ve seen two people in this exact position. Well, I’ve seen one person in the position…I was one of them. I close my eyes, but I still leave a small slit open, so I can see if he tries to reveal me or not.

When he comes to the realization that I am whimpering of sadness and concern, he lowers the hand that he had just raised to punch me. I open my eyes, trying to hide the amused look that I really want to make. I want to thank him for not pummeling me into the center of our planet, which he could’ve done. I wouldn’t have cared. If I were to die, I’d love for Frank to kill me. Hey, I’ve lived a good life, so why not stop the road here?

He releases his grip on the collar of my hoodie. Luckily, he releases the grip on the grit on his teeth, too. That action always scares people. Don’t worry – I’ve tried. He tries to smile, but I know it’s fake. Does he feel bad? Yes, I’m a little pissed off for making me whimper. This fucking boy made me whimper. I bet I looked like a complete and utter baby. Do I care? No, but the people do. Frank does. Frank cares. Frank probably doesn’t think I am who I am. A person like me wouldn’t whimper if someone were about to punch them. They would knock them out first.

I smoothen out the area that he gripped onto on my hoodie. Truthfully, I didn’t care about the hoodie. I just cared about why he would want to punch me. Is he mentally ill? Yeah, that’s a harsh topic to think about, but would a regular person freak out over four words? It’s not that I’m mad at Frank. I’m just disappointed with myself.

“I – I’m sorry. Oh dear Lord, I’m just – I’m really sorry, Hunter,” he cries, as he loosens the grip on my jacket entirely, and just runs out of the lunchroom, tears staining his once vivid and lively. What had I done to him?

I debate whether or not to go check on him. He probably wants to be left alone now. He probably needs to think some things over with himself. I wonder if he stopped by the coffee shop too. You know, as the old me, it would be right about now that I call Frank a copier or a copycat, but he isn’t one. He just flipped out, and needs space. We all need that once in our life. We all flip out over something…some people more than others.

I remain sitting at my lunch table, and continue to eat my lunch, ignoring everyone’s stunned faces. God, why can’t people just stay out of other people’s business?

I stay, eat, and just think for however many hours, until a lunch woman thing, comes to tell me I have to leave, so do they so they can clean the place up. Without argument or conversation, I stand up, and exit out the door. Before walking to the elevator, I walk to the coffee shop instead. Frank isn’t in there. I know I shouldn’t he concerned, because he’s probably in our room, but…still. I have a feeling he ran away. Maybe Frank’s way of clearing his mind is jogging. Oh _fuck._ I can’t think of that. It’s making me too unfocused.

In minutes, I’m up on our floor, and I try and search for our room. Why do, all of a sudden, my back get chill down it when I think of the word ‘our’? I try to shake off the feeling, as I place a hand on the doorknob. Inside to where the door unlocks to, I hear sobbing. Frank couldn’t be sobbing. Had it been about…what had just happened? Didn’t he know it wasn’t a big deal? Did he think he had hurt me? No, that wouldn’t have happened. Most people on this planet would kill to knock me out.

After I gather enough courage to actually twist the doorknob, I do just that and enter on in. I do feel like I am barging, but what am I supposed to do? Leave him in here? It is my room, anyways. And what if he needs help and encouragement? Oh…help? Encouragement? Those words aren’t in my dictionary either.

I scan the room, but Frank is nowhere to be seen. He must be in the bathroom. The second that I tug the door open, the crying stops and I hear something being rubbed by something else. I try to not move out of the doorway, in case he wouldn’t want that, but if I did stay, I’d look really awkward. And what if he wanted the door closed? Oh my God, this child is so confusing.

I lay on the bed, stretching all my limbs out. I need some time to relax; don’t judge me. I heave a sigh, accidentally signaling to Frank that I am here, and that I am concerned about him. Or however you explain that through a thick gust of wind provided through the mouth area.

Frank steps out of his bulletproof area, protecting him from any source of people. His face is now, literally, drenched in tears; he has bags under his eyes; his entire body is extremely pale; he looked fragile and ready to collapse. What could’ve fucking happened in two hours? But his eyes were filled with sorrow, and because of that, I didn’t ask him about the situation. I tried to speak to him as much as I could, without bringing up anything that has happened in the last six hours.

“I want to go to sleep,” Frank states, quickly undressing himself into his boxers. Those better be the only things he has on. No, wait, I misspoke. Those better be on him while he sleeps. Fuck. I nod, tearing my eyes away from him as he unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down to his thighs. Before it was normal, but now I’m just being a creeper.

                  I, very awkwardly, pull my jeans down and remove my shirt. I can tell he isn’t staring at me. I don’t find it a problem – it just contributes to my theory that he’s straight. He is straight. He must be straight. I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it?

                  “Is there a separate bed or…do I just sleep with you?” Frank asks, who has successfully removed his clothes, besides his undershirt and a pair of boxers. They’re black boxers. His undershirt is a heather grey color. His tone isn’t mad. His tone isn’t upset. His tone is more of an amused one. Maybe he isn’t straight. He could be bisexual. There’s not a problem with that. I find no harm in that whatsoever. Nope-ity, nope, nope.

                  “There’s not an extra bed; sorry. If you feel too uncomfortable...” I answer, but before I can fucking contribute a proposal, he interrupts me.

                  “No, I don’t mind. Do you?” He questions, as he positions himself onto the left side of the bed. As he climbs in, I start to realize how awkward this will be. Just a couple hours before, he had threatened to punch me in the face, and now we are magically sharing a bed together? It just doesn’t make any sense to me. I thought he hated me. Everyone hates me. I shake my head, and wait until he fully climbs in the bed. After he is finished adjusting himself perfectly in the bleached-white bed, I slide through, shoving my legs awkwardly under the covers. I use the word ‘awkwardly’ a lot in this situation, because I fucking swear, if anyone else was in this situation, they would say the exact same thing.

                  He flicks off the light, where the entire room is just pitch black. Its…here comes that word again…incredibly awkward you don’t understand. His legs are pushed to his side, while mine as flung loosely around the bed. His arms are glued to his side, while my arms are carelessly thrown under my pillow for support on my head. But another difference is, in three minutes, Frank is fast asleep. Me? Nope.

                  I begin to think that I will fall asleep. So, because of that crazy thought, I shut my eyes that were once trailing Frank’s sleeping and limp body and try to fall asleep. Wasn’t it supposed to work? Wasn’t it supposed to be a flick of a magic fairy wand, and make it that simple? Wasn’t I supposed I sleep automatically? Well, it didn’t work, so I lay there for another hour, staring in the black room, not allowing myself to stare at Frank’s face.

                  But, what if I stared at Frank’s face, but put my gaze to good use?

                  At that note, I spring out of bed and walk around anxiously and silently, trying to find something. I tear the room, silently, apart, trying to find one little thing. Once I have looked for a good five minutes and have given up, I turn my head, walking back to my bed, when I see it: it was on my nightstand all along. Yes, I could contemplate how stupid I am for not seeing that, but the most important thing is, right now, is to open this sketchbook, secure my charcoal pencil in my hand, and begin to draw. Begin to draw Frank.

                  I begin with his face, how it’s tilted sideways. I make sure to add in the eyeliner-smudge details, and how squishy his cheeks are. I even add in how chocolaty brown his eyes are. I draw his lips – _damn_ , would I want those on mine right now. I continue to sketch his entire face – his eyes, his nose, which needs a little improvement, his mouth, and as I begin to curve a line on the side of his face, I tilt my head to the side, balancing it on my shoulder. My eyes shut as I place my hand under my head. I curl my feet after I kick them up. I start to fall asleep, with Frank’s drawing still balanced in my lap.

                  And tonight, I fall asleep thinking of Frank.


	3. Confusion

I wake up to the unpleasant ringing of an alarm clock. Knowing that I won’t fall back asleep if this thing keeps beeping, I actually open my eyes. At that unpleasant note, I release from my fetal position, and secure my feet on the floor under me. I remove my hands from the chair’s arms, and in my neck, scratching the back of it. I yawn, replacing my arms from around my neck to stretch in the arms, as if I’m spreading them above my head. When the alarm becomes so unbearable that I want to shoot the fucking alarm until it’s officially unable to make this sound, I stand up from my very comfortable position and chair, and quietly smack the alarm clock with all the force I could muster, _silently_. I wouldn’t want to wake up Frank: if he were here, anyway. 

                  Where is he? There aren’t that many places to go around here.

                  I take a few final glances at his bed, which has been horribly unmade. My clean-freak characteristic is slowly taking my brain over, and it’s really annoying. I can’t have one item of clothing sprawled on the floor without my mind screaming at me to pick it up and place it where it belongs. Frank better not tear this room to spreads.

                  I fly on the bed that Frank had just slept on I hope not too long ago. I magically drift my head onto a pillow, but my head hits something. It feels like a hit of cardboard – like an advert for free mints or more towels. As my curiosity gets the best of me, I place my hands inside the, also, bleached-white pillowcase. When I feel the cardboard paper, I drag it out to the opening of the pillowcase.

                  And what is it? That same pamphlet I tried to dodge yesterday.

                  But things have changed since then and feelings have changed. At that time, I hated Frank. I still hate Frank, because he could turn me in, but…he’s so beautiful. The way the tuxedo perfectly folds over his shoulder completes everything – and his facial expression in the picture…dear Lord. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t upset. He isn’t happy. He doesn’t feel anything, and I like that I can see that just in the photo. His hands are placed on both sides of the opening of the buttoned tuxedo; his shoulders are relaxed. He seems relaxed about the entire thing. I bet now since he’s living with me, he’s not relaxed anymore. He’s scared to be around me. He’s scared to hit him, because he’ll think I’ll hit him back harder. He doesn’t trust me, and he shouldn’t.

                  Again, my eyes trail down below the photograph, and this time I study his full name. Frank Anthony Iero. How do you pronounce Iero? Eye-roh? I can’t even ask him, because he’ll know I was staring at the photo of him. _Oh my God_ , what if he felt the cardboard in his sleep too and pulled it out also? What if he thinks I’m a creep? Well, my defense is that it’s not my fucking fault he’s beautifully construct on the first tip of his hair to the last atom of his foot. He’s perfect. I don’t deserve him in my life. I’m going to spill everything – and if I don’t, I’ll hurt him. I would hurt him badly, and that can’t happen.

                  When the thought of actually talking to Frank crosses my mind, I hurriedly shove the brochure in the pillowcase again, spring up from the bed, and continue to try to find Frank. He couldn’t have been at breakfast. It’s 7:55; lunch doesn’t start until 8:30. I know Frank – he isn’t one to be early for things. I search under the bed, in the closet, in the hallway, in the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen and every other fucking room in our apartment. Where could he have hidden? Our apartment isn’t big enough that he came hide anywhere. It’s quite small, much like him, so where could he have hidden?

                  Why would he want to hide from me in the first place?

                  Just as that twelve-word question passes through my head, I smell something. I can’t quite make out the name of the smell, but it’s moderately pungent. But, I’ve smelled that smell before. I’ve smelt it many times before, so why can’t I just make out the name of it? I start to walk to where the smell is coming from, and the closer I get to it, the more I know what it is.

                  Then when I get to the curtain, the smell is there. How could the smell be in a curtain? Do they use a very bitter detergent to clean their curtains? Who even uses detergent on curtains? Do they even make curtain detergent? Why would they use curtain detergent anyways? And why does it smell like someone died? Are they using it to hide something?

                  I push the curtains over, to look out the window. But the thing was…there wasn’t a window. Like there was a clear section of glass separating the world, and me, yes, but we didn’t have a view of New Jersey. I had a view out our balcony. The balcony Frank is lying on.

                  Why would he know there’s a balcony? How could he not tell me? Did he think it was fun to scare me half to death? Why didn’t he just wake me up and take me with him? Did he not want to talk to me? Did he want some alone time? Is it because he’s scared of me? Is he plotting ways to escape from me? Or to kidnap me? Wait, if he’s on the balcony, how could I smell him from there? Was even is it?

                  I slide the door to the left, and walk onto the terrace. Frank turns his attention from behind the safety railings to me. His look is…scared. Concerned. Confused. Worried. He hates me. This beautiful, tormented, perky creature hates me and is scared of me. He _has_ to know who I am. What I’ve done. He knows everything. He’s not stupid; he’s brilliant. He’s fit the pieces together. I’m going to be thrown in prison in days if this newly found information is true.

                  “Sit,” Frank, who still had this pajama’s on, hostilely orders, as he motions his hand toward the empty beach chair next to him. Shakily, I sit down next to him, being careful not to scare Frank anymore than he already is. Once I’m correctly sitting in the lawn chair, he turns his eyes away from me and to the railings again.

                  I want to strangle him.

                  I want to strangle him because he fucking gave me a heart attack. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him! _I hate him!_

                  “If you have questions, ask away,” he states, his eyes never leaving the railings or maybe beyond the railings. I sigh heavily, which makes him dissect his stare away from the railings for the second time now. I meet his eyes – they’re brown and full of sorrow. Like, full meaning right to the fucking top. He’s upset, or he’s tired, or he’s agitated. Or he is just depressed everyday and I just don’t see it. Maybe that ‘I’m really perky and like to make you cry of my happiness’ gig is just a way of him wearing his mask? What if he isn’t happy, and he’s actually really upset and depressed?

                  “Tell me ten different things about yourself,” I order. His expression changes to a pleased look. Like, he smirks, as if he’s either wanted me to ask that question, or he wants to ask that same question to me. Oh, fuck, if he asks me that question I would have to lie immensely. He positions himself in the chair so he’s comfortable. He’s probably really uncomfortable with me in the room. I’m almost positive he didn’t want to speak with me for a good half hour.

                  “Uh, okay, as you wish. My full name is Frank Iero,” Frank answers, scratching his chin for dramatic effect. I knew that, but I can’t tell him that. That would be extremely hard to cover up if he did know who I was. It would just be the icing on his cake. Eye-air-oh. I’ve got to remember that.

                  “I’m nineteen years old,” Frank says again, still thinking of more things to say. Nineteen years old? That makes me six whole years older than him. That’s a lot. Does he know how old I am? Does he want to know? I can’t _tell him_ , though. On the wanted sign that I saw through the coffee shop window, it shows my age on there. It’s risky.

                  “I play guitar, and if you want, I could teach you,” he remarks. I know all this stuff, Frank. I need new information. I only fucking did this so I could know more about you, not to refresh my memory of the pamphlet I just looked at.

                  “I’m a really secretive person. I have a million secrets that I’m dying to tell someone. I want to be able to trust someone,” he answers again. His eyes have never left that railing.  You can trust me, Frank. Just as that thought crosses my mind Frank peels his eyes off of the railing and looks into mine. He’s digging a hole in my eye. He’s digging a hole to my brain. I can see what he’s doing. He’s digging to see if I really can be trusted.

                  “Can I trust you?” Frank’s cold voice calls toward me. I try to make sure my head doesn’t move to make a shake or a nod, or any facial expression. He can trust me. Who have I fucking got to blab it to? He turns his head back to the same damn banister.

                  “Um…I lived in northern New Jersey my entire life until a year ago and I turned nineteen. I moved to New York a week after my birthday, which is Halloween. I moved back to here in less than a year,” he says, trying to keep me excited. I don’t think he can see, but I would be excited as long as he was here, with me.

                  “Do they know you’re here?” I ask, trying to not be barging in the conversation. I haven’t talked until he started naming things about him, so I wouldn’t want to scare him or anything.

                  “Um, I think so. I don’t know for sure, because I haven’t called since I left New York, because I would think they’d be scared for me if they knew I was moving so much. Oh, uh, I really want a tattoo,” he explains, pointing to his neck. I stare at where he is pointing at; it’s just below his ear.

                  “I want a scorpion one right here,” he describes, circling off an area near his ear. As he does that, I stare at his neck. Dear Lord, it’s perfect, as well as he is.

                  Just as he waits for me to digest where he wants a tattoo, I notice what he is holding. I notice what is exhaling from his mouth. I notice what the smell finally is.

                  He’s smoking.

                  “Do you always smoke?” I ask Frank, my eyes still glued to his left hand: the hand he is carrying his cigarette in. It’s highly damaged and looks like it’s been used for a long time. Next to him is the ashtray that has to at least be filled with at least nine cigarettes. This must be his tenth one. How long has he been out here?

                  “Yeah. Do you want one?” Frank asks persuasively, already digging in his box for one for me. I shake my head, but he already hands one to me. I shake my head again, which causes him to frown and shove it back in the box. He just couldn’t begin to understand the many bad experiences I’ve faced that have had a cigarette in the equation.

                  He looks sad. What the fuck did I do this time?

                  “Oh. What number are we on again on terms of the facts about me? Nine? Yeah, it’s nine – the truth is…there aren’t actually termites in my room,” Frank admits, burying his face in his hands. Hmm, I knew that too Frank. I sure fucking hope he doesn’t think I’m some clueless maniac, because I’m not. Well, I _am_ a maniac.

                  “I just…I needed a friend. I needed some to trust. I needed someone to talk to when I’m upset. I need someone to be my friend. I need someone to accept me for me. I needed some to not judge me. I needed someone – and if lying got me it, I’d lie, and that’s what I did. You can be mad. I understand if you’re mad. But if you’d understand how much I’m beginning to grow fond of you and trust you, it might change your mind. Hunter, I trust you. But, now, I just need you to trust me. But, you probably don’t trust me anymore if you already did, because you trusted me when I said there were termites in my room, and I lied. I’m sorry, Hunter. I just…”

                  At the note, without letting him finish his sentence, I stand up from my ‘lawn chair’, walk over to his lawn chair, lean down and hug him. I, the most feared man in the world, have hugged someone, and they didn’t flinch. They didn’t scream, push me away, and violently dial the police. He doesn’t do anything, but smile and hug me back.

                  _He trusts me._

After at least ten seconds, Frank and I both release at the same time. The smile is still on his face. Dear Lord. His smile is literally per-fucking-ection. He’s even more gorgeous when his lips curve up; when his colorless and bland lips illuminate to a pink and excited color. Man, do I want those on mine right now.

                  _He trusts me._

Releasing from our awkward hand-in-hand position, I sit back in my seat as he lays back into his. Silence passes over us like a bomb, but it’s not an awkward silence. I like the silence we share – because the entire silence, he was smiling. I caused him to smile again. Damn, I told you I’d start to want to befriend this man. The whole point of his big speech was to show how much I make his happy, in a friend way of course. But, as much as a horrible person I am and as much hearts I’ve shattered, I have always made someone smile. Twice. I know I’m a bad person, but no matter what, I have always made this child smile. I was the reason. _I_ was. Nobody else was. Nothing else was. I was.

                  He probably wouldn’t do any of this if he really knew who I was. He would be running from me. He’d have tears streaming down his face. He’d be upset with himself for trusting someone like me. He shouldn’t trust me. I’m not trustworthy. But he still does.

                  And the second he finds out that I can’t be trusted; I’ll be dragged away before I can explain.

                  He doesn’t finish his last fact, but I don’t think I need him to. I learned a lot about him right now. He’s not normal, like I thought he was. He’s not a stalker, like I thought he was. He suffers through real life problems like I thought he didn’t. That means he functions normally, which means that he has common sense. People with common sense can sense if someone is acting strange. They can sense if someone is suspicious. They can sense if you are a culprit. I’m a culprit. I’m a fucking culprit, and he could probably find that our by trailing my scent.

                  He’ll find out who I am. He’s not stupid.

                  Frank takes a long drag from his old cigarette. Man, the smell of the smoke escaping into the air is very tempting. I want to rip that cigarette box right of her fingers, light one, and inhale the toxic mist. I want to huff all of it inside into my lungs. I want it to cause lung cancer. I want to die faster without me killing myself or murder. I want that pack of cigarettes to do the deed.

                  If I’m dead, I can’t be caught.

                  I’ll be buried.

                  As well as my secrets and confessions. No one will get to here what I have inside my mind. Hey, don’t legal rights still apply if I’m buried six feet underground? Will the FBI leak everything to everyone on the planet? They are called secrets for a reason.

                  But I can’t have that cigarette. It’s as powerful on me as booze can be on a normal person. I’ll go fucking nuts. I’ll be flying across the walls and doing lethal manners. Does he not notice this? That’s how all this fucking happened; it was from one drag of a lung-killing, basically harmless, whitened cig. That’s why the government is tracking me down. That’s why my face is on every streetlight and stop sign in the world. That’s why I am the most scared-of man in the universe. My friends have abandoned me. My _family_ has abandoned me. All this shit happened was from one tiny drag of that death machine. It runs on human torture. I can’t fucking have a cigarette, unless I want my life to be crashing down even harder than right now.

                  As tempting as it sounds, one cigarette will turn me into Godzilla.

                  “I think breakfast started a couple minutes ago. We should get going to beat the clock.” He informs me, standing up from his seat. But he doesn’t want to beat the clock. He doesn’t want to sit in the silence anymore. He doesn’t want to think of that hug anymore. He doesn’t want to picture it again. He doesn’t want to remember that it ever happened. He doesn’t want to trigger that memory back any way possible. He doesn’t want to remember I touched him. And he wants to blind himself from the memory by nervously stuffing food into his mouth, his restive eyes scanning me. And my movements. And my breathing patterns. And my facial expressions. And my eating source. And how I stare at him. And how I stare at everything else. He’s going to be watching me.

                  Just like he thinks I watch him. Which I do, but he can’t fucking know that.

                  He extends his arm out, waiting for me to grab onto his, surprisingly, clammy hands and allow him to pull me up. Which I do obediently. He sighs, and leads the way toward the exit. Also known as the door, but, hey, who said I couldn’t be dramatic _and_ a threat to mankind? See, it’s simply multi-tasking, my friend. Right here, always thinking.

                  He unlocks to the door for me, pressing his back against the released door and extending his arm towards the exit of the door, also known as the hallway. I tip my imaginary hat at him, making him smile. That was the third time. The third fucking time I made this kid smile. Hey, don’t I get a pat on the back? A high-five? A ‘nice job, bro’? Nothing. I get nothing here. Well, maybe the police could give me a pat on the back. With a gun. When dragging me to jail. Maybe Frank could. He’s never suspected anything that I know of, because if he did he’d either tell me or scream it at me with, again, crying. Telling me how I’m not what he thought I was.

                  It’s okay, Frank. I’m not who I thought I was either.

                  Once I was safely stationed in the hallway, he follows behind me and shuts the door. We lead each other down the hall, with our shoulders about seven inches apart. In time, he moves farther away from me, to where he’s a whole foot and a half away from me. He’s scared of me. We were really fucking close to touching shoulders but he saw his chance. And he took it. He swooped down from under my defenseless shoulder and moved to the other side of the hallway just to piss me off, and that’s exactly what he did.

                  Man, he makes it hard not to punch him right now.

                  Too bad he’s too cute for cause of violence.

                  But if he were not as attractive as he is, I would gladly throw a punch at his face.

                  But if that meant screwing up his perfection of a face, I would gladly oblige. I would not want to be the reason Frank’s beautiful face is scraped up. Although, I would probably be the only person on the planet that would even _think_ of doing that to him. I probably would, if he wasn’t so damn adorable. Literally, someone needs to fucking shut down his cute campaign.

                  We reach the cafeteria in four minutes tops, already walking to the tray section. Once I grab a tray, I can already feel the eyes tearing a whole in my back. Everyone is staring at me. The lunch ladies. The breakfast-eaters. Even out of the corner of my eye I can see Frank catching multiple glances at me when he sees everyone else in the fucking world staring at me. People are stopping their stroll, like just stopping in the middle of the hallway, to stare at me.

                  The tension shaking the room is enough to generate an earthquake.

                  I keep my head low, still not knowing how to casually shove my black hood over my head: without creating a major distraction and suspicion. I already am a major distraction and suspicion, Jesus Christ…Hunter. There are times like these I actually had forgotten my name.

                  I wish I didn’t have to lie with my name. I wish I could just make up a name I wanted, because I honestly didn’t know my name, but, sadly, I do know my name. I’ve heard it. Spoken by other people. Every time I try to empty my name from my head, I hear it again. Many people talk about what I’ve done and me. And I’m sure everyone else here has heard or has spoken about me. That’s why their eyes are glued to my back.

                  They’re burning a hole through my spine. It’s imaginarily painful. I hate the sudden attention. Dinner last night wasn’t like this. They didn’t pay any attention to me. Or the coffee shop. It kind of feels like someone shot a light on me: a spotlight. It feels like it’s only me in a room, well, despite the layer of bats hidden in the darkness, where the only thing I can clearly see of them is their bleach-white eyes, staring at me. Taking me in. Analyzing my actions and movements.

                  Fucking stalkers.

                  When my plate is full to my pleasure, I (very) shadily march to a random and empty table and set my tray down. Once I’m positive everyone’s eyes are on me, I tuck my hood over my head, successfully disguising my face, and wave tauntingly to my crowd. All of them stand aback, the same awestruck looks on their faces. Hey, if you’re going to go to jail, I might as well be funny while doing so.

                  But nobody is screaming ‘It’s _him_!’ ‘Hide your children!’ ‘Call nine-one-one!’ ‘It’s the guy on the poster!’ and nobody is running and shrieking awkward and fictional syllables of panic. Nobody is even moving. They are just frozen in fear. After a second from waving to them, I attract my gaze toward my full bowl of corn flakes happily drenched and flooded in almond milk.  Licking my lips for the show, I grab my spoon very murderously and lurch it into my cereal, causing gasps everywhere. I make sure to put my signature-menacing smirk on my face as I shove the spoon-full of wetted corn flakes into my mouth, crunching ever so violently, making parents cover their children’s’ eyes.

                  It feels good to be bad.

                  But I can’t quite make out Frank’s expression in the swarm of people. There are tall women and short males, skinny males and obese women, but even though Frank is in half of those categories, I can’t find him anywhere. Maybe he isn’t there. Maybe he left. Maybe he was scared of me, as well as all of these scared-to-death adults and children.

                  Did I really scare Frank off? Am I really that pathetic and daunting? Well, maybe that cereal-spoon thing was a little out of hand, but I did it for reaction – to see if anyone here did actually know who I was, which they did. Now, I will probably be dragged away because someone is most likely on the phone with the police in another room.

                  I deserve it anyways. They are scared of me, but there is no one – _no one_ – more scared of me, than me. I’m petrified of my reflection in the mirror. Sometimes I’m fucking scared that I’ll hurt myself, when I should know I won’t – or shouldn’t. Well, that’s beide the point. The point is Frank’s gone…and he could be on the phone with the government or the police at this very second. Talking about ways to do a surprise attack on me, so I can be dragged away safely and with no violence at all – very subtle and such. _Blah, blah, blah._ On the same note, Frank hates me even if he isn’t on the phone with someone threatening and very violent on the other line. He’ll be scared.

                  Nonetheless, someone else could be on the phone with gold-badged persons. I’ll be escorted in minutes. Prison was always the right place for me. But, would suicide be illegal on prison grounds? Would I get _another_ life sentence? Because here, in lovely New Jersey, abolished the death penalty many years ago. Bless their soul. But not like it would matter, if I would be dead within my first twenty-four hours?

                  If I got one call, I’d call Frank in a heartbeat, even if he did turn me in. He’s my friend, I think. Doesn’t he care about me? Wouldn’t he care about me? He better fucking care about me if he just threw me in a jail cell. I’ve heard stories about people who throw psychotic people into mental asylums because they care about them. But he’s not throwing me in an asylum where I can get better and _live_. I’m going to die in there.

                  It’s like a tightened death trap, with teeth and beady red eyes. He’s just throwing me into a bottomless put of emotions and sadness, while silently and violently being ripped off, limb by limb, of my feisty and horrific mind. I’ve die from overthinking of my own mind. My mind will slightly rot me away. I’ll be nothing anymore. He wants me dead. He wants me to die. They all want me to die. All of them.

                  All of the selfish little rats that stand before me, under my control, but that don’t matter at the moment.

                  What _does_ matter is that I need to leave. Fast. I don’t want to go to court then imprison. Yes, it’s where I belong, but I don’t want to. No one is going to like me there. It’s hard enough befriending Frank, and trying to befriend a couple of buffy and strong guys in my cell won’t just be a walk through the park. Yeah, they probably will know what I’ve done, but they are probably done much worse things.

                  I stare up from my now-empty spoon and up at the people. I can tell my face is vacant and I probably look like a Jedi from ‘Star Wars’ but I don’t care. I’m creepy, and that’s enough to send people flying up the roof, or whatever that phrase is. Now the secretary is in the crowd, which has a least grown by twenty people, all staring at me. All of them probably have cell phones in hand, nine-one-one on speed dial.

                  The looks on their faces are enough to drive someone mad.

                  Which is happening to me. Right now – their suspicious looks and skeptical body patterns. They’re going to call the cops on me. I cautiously stand from my seat, making sure my hood doesn’t fall off my head or make a slight adjustment. My restless eyes stay on their scared bodies. I back away, making terror strike my eyes. I turn my head left, right, backwards, and in front of me for any sign of movement from men with guns in hand and handcuffs casually draped around their waist.

                  Nothing. Not even a sound. Not an action. _Nothing_.

                  “You know who I am! Don’t you? You all do! You hate me! You think I’m a psychopath! You all think I’m insane, _don’t you_? You’d do any-fucking-thing to put me behind bars, wouldn’t you, you filthy and selfish human beings? You all have the police on the phone right now, right? Well, if they are, here I am! Right here! I’m guilty! I’m _exactly_ who you think I am! The sound of my voice is recognizable enough, isn’t it? Do it! Come get me now! I deserve it! 3905 Amber Drive, New Jersey. Come faster. I’m not fucking leaving until I hear the sirens blare and see the lights on the top of your cars from right here! We are in the cafeteria!” I yell, waving my hands in the air frantically. But none of them move. No one speaks. No one even tries to conduct a whisper. And I know why: they are scared of me.

                  “C’mon don’t be shy!”

                  Just as I said those words, someone else’s, trying to barge in on our wonderful and talkative conversation, interrupts me. Well, if it counts that I’m the only one actually talking. Again, they are too scared. But before I can say another word, phrase or even scream to the sky a syllable for help, someone very strong and has a very deep voice, strongly positions my hands in a cross location. The man does not turn me around to see the conversation with a, I’m guessing, short, weak man and a police officer. But I can already hear it.  And I’m frozen. I can’t run. I can’t talk. I’m hopeless. I’m going to jail now.

                  “Is this the man?”

                  “Yes, that’s him.”

                  “Okay, what’s your name, sir? I need it for files.”

                  “Frank – Frank Iero.”

                  “Ah. Wonderful.”

                  “So…what are you going to do to him?”

                  “Nothing yet. We are just going to the place and wait for trial to start…”

                  “So he can be proven guilty?”

                  “Exactly.”

                  “If he is, you know, guilty, is it death penalty?”

                  “It depends, but we abolished the death penalty here years ago. Although if the family wishes for him to be severely punished, we could just drive to New York, or somewhere, where death is legal and do that there. As of right now, he’s going to serve the life imprisonment.”

                  “Splendid.”

                  “Do you want to speak to him? Any last words?”

                  “Nope. He probably hates me anyway.”

                  “Understandable.”

                  “Yeah, I don’t want to die today because I ratted him out, or so he’d probably put it.”

                  “I understand.”

                  “How long will he be gone?”

                  “Oh…uh…just about over lifetime.”

                  Now this sentence is obviously not directed toward Frank, who fucking turned me in, but toward the police officer that is gripping onto my hands rather tightly. I don’t cry because it hurt, but I cry because I’m going to jail. And Frank was the one who ratted me out. To think I actually liked him. Or start to like him.

                  “Take him to the car.”

                  Fuck. ‘The car.’ That’s a little sketchy. Then the police officer with the not-deep voice tells Frank that he has to go to the station to to answer some questions about me and why he fucking ratted me out. If he sits in the back seat with me, I’m going to strangle him. I’m going to make them stop the car so I can make sure this man does not get driven to the station without medical help, like, for example, a gurney. Or I could just punch him. That wouldn’t be as fulfilling, but it will have to do. I’m already objected to life sentence. What have I go to lose now? My dignity? Check. My happiness? Check. The people I care about? Well, check, as in the only people I car _ed_ about hates me and want me to die in prison. My virginity? Check – wait. No. Not yet. Not ever. Who even has sex in prison? That would be sick, man.

                  Motherfucking sick, y’know. Don’t people understand that they could get caught? Someone could be watching you…um…do things. Explaining it would just be awkward, having a crush on Frank and all. Wait, I don’t, and even if I did, it would be a former crush. Mentioning he _did_ rat me out and not trust me. He said he could trust me. He lied. Again. Well, I can’t trust him. No. Not one bit. Fuck Frank. Wait…no…I don’t want to fuck Frank. Maybe I do. _Fuck._ I don’t want to fuck Frank, because he’s an egocentric scumbag. Like I said before, I hate him. I knew he was stupid the second I met him.

                  I was right.

                  That quote ‘Never judge a book from its cover’ is bullshit. I did just that and look where it got me. I was right.

                  Before I can finish my thought, the man tightens his grip on my hands, dragging me to the exit of the cafeteria then the building. As I was _towed_ , I notice that the people were gone at their positions. The coffee shop people aren’t in their shop, but I do know where they are. They’re staring at me, behind me. Sculpting their stares into my lower backbone, but the man is behind me, so I’m safe from their stares for right now. Frank walks with the other normal-like man, who he is casually talking with. Whenever I try to focus on something or someone else, my eyes always somehow skip back over to Frank and his awkward and trying-to-be-rad hairstyle. It was hot before. It’s not hot now. It’s just disgusting. He’s disgusting. His soul is disgusting. His motive is disgusting. He’s not who I thought he was.

                  I was a sliver away from trusting him – thank the Lord I didn’t.

                  Outside is an orderly set of police cars, lined up one behind the other. Supposedly my man’s car is the first one because he is the leader of this case and Frank’s man is the one behind his. Frank’s man’s car is following ours to the New Jersey Solitary Imprisonment Building. They should just call in New Jersey Prison but _no._ But I just learned a new word. Solitary means alone. A thing I will be for the rest of my miserable life.

                  All thanks to Frank.

                  Fuck you, Frank. And man, how badly I want to yell that in his face. I want him to know he’s stupid and worthless and untrustworthy and a liar and sadistic and fucking pathetic. He makes me gag. People like him are…horrible. Completely horrific.

                  Fuck you, Frank Iero. _Fuck. You._

                  “Don’t let the two boys share the same car, Guy.” My man murmurs the other, supposedly named Guy, I suppose smirking, because Guy doestoo. This Police Language is very sketchy I don’t like it. They aren’t allowed to make a secret language or weird movements and facial gestures. No. No. I’m already going to be locked up for the rest of my life. The least you could do, mean officer men, is let me in on your police officer-talk-but-without-talking-talk.

                  But, these officers are smart. They can sense that I want or I was going to strangle or punch him, but they are too quick. They can read minds; that’s the whole point why they’re cops…wait…

                  Do you remember what I said about Frank yesterday? I said Frank looked like a cop or a part of the government because he looked like he could read my mind? He is. He is a part of the government or a police officer. He had them on speed dial because he’s one of them. He left the crowd to call them. He wasn’t scared of me. He was never scared of me. He was just sent to be undercover on me, to get me to admit it and finally get sent to jail.

                  This is the main reason I don’t trust people.

                  He was one of them all along. He let me into trusting him. He just led me under his little trap. He never considered me as a friend. Just a victim. Just another person to be sent to jail. He fake-cared for me. Thank God I didn’t begin to love him or anything. If I had my sketchbook with me right now, I’d rip that page that I sketched last night out. I’d tear it into shreds. I’d stomp on it. I’d punch it. I’d bite it. I’d run over it with a tractor. I just want it destroyed. Not a memory of him when I liked him. I hate him. He’s nothing to me. He used me. He took fucking advantage of me. Sabotage. Fuck Frank! Fuck him. And his egocentric attitude. And his really likeable personality. And his beautiful facial sculpture.

                  I cross my way over to Frank slightly, making my eyes and body intimidating and mysterious, decreasing my hood lower on my head, so he can’t see my face or my eyes. He gasps and steps aback, clutching the collar of his shirt in panic as he does so. When he realizes I’m not holding a stake over his heart, he steps back onto two feet and begins to breathe again.

                  “Hey, Frank.” I murmur, running my shoulder into his for dramatic effect. Again, if I’m going to be arrested and thrown in jail, I want Frank to remember me as the person who really wanted to fuck with your mind, and make you feel really fucking bad for what you just did. I want him to not fall asleep, to be lying awake, staring at the ceiling because his mind is being overflowed with guilt of what he had just done to me.

                  His eyes are like swords, stabbing into my blood-filled veins, digging into my flesh, piercing my skin. He’s trying to make me feel guilty – but what for? For what I did? Give me a break. I could not feel more guilt over what I did if you dunked me in it, rolled me in it, and injected it inside my skin.

                  “Thanks,” I boom, turning my head away from Frank to my man, whose eyes are on me. He isn’t wearing a facial expression, and I believe he isn’t supposed to anyways. Cops don’t have emotions. Cops don’t have hearts. I mean, look what’s they’re doing to me!

                  When we get to the car, my man opens the back door for me, whilst I step inside. Whoa, that sounded weird. ‘My man.’ The closest I had to a man was Frank and look where that got me. No-fucking-where, except a seven by ten jail cell, full of murderers, rapists, and people that just ran a red light and forgot to pay their tax.

                  Then Frank starts to enter my car, sitting next to me, his eyes full of concern and worry. Oh, fuck, can this guy give me a break? He is neither concerned nor worried for my sake, considering he was the one who turned me in. If he didn’t want me to rot and die, and he wanted me to live and be prosperous, he could’ve just not called nine-one-one. There were two decisions in his hands – one where he loses a friend, becomes incredibly lonely, live in a criminal’s room alone, and rifle through his belongings, to see if he had any sharp or dangerous weapons hidden in a linen closet or a sock drawer, ready to plunge into his abdomen, or he doesn’t.

“Hunter? Hunter? Hunter, are you okay? _Hunter?_ Why are you looking at me like that? Hunter, please answer me.” He inquires, poking and slapping me in the shoulder, not quite hard, but enough to make you ask yourself why he’s doing it. His eyes are still bursting with sorrow and care for me. Oh, fuck me, you little meaningless twerp. Wait! Don’t literally fuck me. Not like I would mind. Jesus Christ. I tighten my hands on his arms, unable to produce words.

                  After ten seconds of just staring into Frank’s eyes, I’m not in the cop car any longer. I can’t quite make out where I am, but I’m starting to feel dizzy, so I lean onto Frank’s chest, breathing rather loudly, I drape my hands on his collarbone, only holding onto him by the collar of his shirt. My head is packed with sweat, and to prove it, I have my hair sticking to my face, arranged irritatingly in front on my eyes.

                  The room spins around me, every object blurred.

                  I sink my head into the crook of his neck, applying all my pressure onto his body. Without even realizing what I am doing, I feel tears running down my cheeks, then my chin, then down onto his shirt. Fuck, when he sees that, he’ll think I’m a slob, but it just makes me stick my head in his shirt harder. I start to weep hysterically. He sighs, rubbing my back for comfort. I don’t quite know what is going on, but Frank is holding me, and that’s all that really matters. It’s actually first hard to believe this man turned me in. He’s just an angel that screwed up one time, I suppose. The way he’s holding me is not how someone who just turned in a criminal would hug someone. Something’s up. Something’s wrong.

                  I release from Frank’s hugging position and look around the strange room. I’m not in the police car anymore; I’m in hallway. In the apartment building. How could I not be in the car? I just was. I can’t move places. I didn’t try to escape. But I’m still here. I’m still alive. I’m not going to rot in a jail cell for a long time. And especially, Frank isn’t a traitor. Frank didn’t try to turn me in. He’s not who I thought he was. Oh, well this sucks.

                  I must just be starting to like him more now; now there’s no reason not to.

                  I turn in circles, and even though I probably look like a lost puppy that can’t seem to find his tail, I don’t even care. Every detail is equilateral to the image I had when we left for lunch an hour ago or such. Wait…it must’ve been seconds ago, and I drifted off into a daydream in the center of the hallway. Ha-ha, I’m a certified dumbass, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, no, hold the flash photography. Oh, stop it you.

                  (I constantly imagine myself as a celebrity.)

                  “Frank? Frank!” I squeal, running back to hug him, dangling my arm around his neck and my head placed again in his neck. Wait, no, not _in_ his neck. That would require a knife and dignity, something I don’t have. Well, I don’t have one of things with me. Oops?

                  This is such a sitcom moment, but I could care less. But, that does mean there’s a possibility of me getting caught. Mental note: do not eat Frosted Flakes like you’re going to murder someone.

                  “Yes, Hunter, that is I. Now, remind me why you stopped in the middle of the hallway for ten minutes staring off into the lamp over there? Are you okay?” He asks again, rubbing circles into my back, soothingly. Wow, someone needs to fucking give this man a certificate or a medal or some sort of congratulation of knowing how to calm someone down so easily just by a touch. He should be a masseuse.

                  “What…Wait. I’m fine, everything’s okay now. Aw, oh my God. I’m here. I’m alive. So are you. Everything’s fine. You’re not some stupid and slimy bastard. Life’s fine; life’s good. Th-Thanks – so much,” I thank, breathing stuffily, wiping my snot-filled nose onto my grey sweatshirt, and sending pea-green mucus collecting onto the fabrics of my thick cotton pullover. Ew.

                  “Okay, good. You can tell me about it later. Shall we go to breakfast?” He giggles, placing his elbow out, obviously showing for me to place my arm where the space is, between his elbow and his hip. I laugh with his slightly, not moving my lips into a smile or anything. Not getting too crazy.

                  “We shall,” I reply, sliding my arm into its desired location as we drift down the hallway as one.


End file.
